According To Plan
by Seniya
Summary: And he followed her. Succumbing to the pressure, to the exquisite pleasure. To anything that she offered, knowing in his heart, that she was giving him everything...WillxCaleb AU
1. Chapter 1

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

Chapter One

By the tender age of seventeen, Susanna Weisman had already been engaged. It was the result of her father's very strenuous business transactions on her behalf.

Her lover's name had been Thomas Vandom, now he hadn't been her first love interest, and by all means he wouldn't be her last, but at that time, fully possessed by the naïveté of a love-struck teenager, she had willingly and happily professed her eternal affection towards him.

Of course, the fact that he was the sole heir to a very lucrative fabric fortune had helped to aid the complicated journey of love along as well.

By the second week of marriage she had sworn she would never even entertain any thoughts of another, so great was the love for her husband…of course that was before he took ill with Scarlet Fever.

Fearing for her life itself, Susanna _Vandom_ took an unexpected holiday in which she planned to visit her fourth cousins who resided two hundred miles away. It was a wonderful trip, she had attended three balls and thirteen tea parties, however sometime between the second ball and after the twelfth party, the message arrived that her husband had passed away.

There are not words to describe the woe one feels at the loss of a spouse (especially one who was the sole heir to a very lucrative fabric fortune), in fact as many of those attending either the thirteenth tea party or the third ball could have told you, Susanna had sworn, despite being a mere eighteen years old, that she would remain a widow for the rest of her days.

She had declared herself quite overcome with grief, and she even threatened the romantic notion of suicide at dinner time to her father. Who had then worked feverishly to arrange another suitor, to ease the _pain_ of these difficult times…this occasion it was a man known solely as Mr. Hale.

Mr. Hale had been twenty two years Susanna's senior, and had suffered from a recurrent case of gout. Truly, the fact that he seemed to have no Christian name did nothing to deter Susanna's growing affection towards this man (who owned more property in Britain that the Queen herself), and so, adorned in a silk gown of the purest whites Susanna had married Mr. Hale, a mere two months after the death of Thomas.

By the time of their hurried marriage she was well aware of her pregnancy, however when the baby girl had been born, she had managed to convince Mr. Hale that despite the child's hearty size (ten pounds and three ounces) that she was obviously premature.

They named the first Wilhelmina, after Mr. Hale's great aunt who, unlike him, had a first name. Although it is pleasurable to note that it was heavily suggested that Mr. Hale's father, a noted drunkard and pouf had named his son Carol since his mother, the original _Carol_ had died giving birth to him.

Whatever the origin of his first name—Susanna was pregnant again in three months. Another girl was born within a year of the first and christened Cornelia and a beauty.

Although by now the stirrings of disaster had already begun. Wilhelmina, to everyone's shock had developed _red_ hair…almost identical red hair mind you, to the recently deceased Thomas Vandom.

Now, Mr. Hale had never been a very intelligent man, in fact most of his days had been dedicated to discovering new pubs and women, and of course medication for his gout (now in its advanced stages). But upon hiring someone to research the Hale family history, he found that red hair had never been held by the Hale's, save for the mysterious thrice removed fifth cousin on his mother's side.

Mr. Hale was outraged. And he immediately made plans to divorce his wife and leave his new daughter(s). He went through with his threats leaving a suspiciously calm Susanna to note that she was quite grateful that he had taken the revolting scent of rotten cabbages (prescribed for the gout) with him.

The scandal of Mrs. Vandom-Hale had now become a very interesting talking point in the many tea houses and taverns. She was so overcome with the shame of these proceedings that she had arranged for a voyage to America, where she planned to make a fresh start (although still in the company of her first husband's vast fortune).

She had managed to keep her vow of celibacy for at least another two years, after that, she had spent a great deal of time convincing the very charming Mr. Joseph Lair that the two children in her company were her younger siblings.

He hadn't believed her, for the rumors of her indiscretions had arrived in Virginia long before she had. But she was a very beautiful lady, and his family was in dept, so he had wedded her.

Ignorant to Joseph's ulterior motives, Susanna had thought him a very noble man to marry her despite the public's disdain at the nuptials. It was only after the birth of their first child (her third), that the twenty one year old had discovered the truth.

He was using her!

She was heartbroken—but full of vengeance. She had made the expedition to the old Mexican obeah woman. And had paid, in full, for a curse to make Joseph's eyes fall out and then for him to be trampled by a horse or some such massive beast.

Instead, Joseph was attacked by bees and died of stings two days later, but since she hadn't paid for bees, Susanna felt no guilt at his demise.

She avoided men like the black plague now. Instead focusing on hiring nannies to mind her three daughters, yes _daughters_, for she could no longer convince anyone of any other form of relation.

Some years later when Wilhelmina and Cornelia were both seventeen and Irma a fresh fifteen; she found, love, or something close to it…again.

This time the suitor was a Count Phobos, who had originated from somewhere in Greece. He was gorgeous, with his long, flowing, fair colored hair and piercing blue gaze. He was a difficult puzzle, and even though he was closer in age to Wilhelmina than to her, she attacked the man, and soon had him in her possession as a fourth husband.

Phobos was a mystery; that much was certain, he spoke little and was constantly away for lengthy periods of time, whenever he was at home, he was in the company of another gentleman, whose name was unknown.

At nights he was unbearable, he would yell hysterically in his sleep, and then wander about the house solemnly, like a ghost.

Susanna was either unaware, or didn't care. But, her children all suspected that it was the latter.

It is here, that our story begins.

* * *

The symphony of a scream reverberated throughout the hallways, disrupting the chastity of the perfect summer's night. The muffled sounds of running feet followed, as a handful of servants and sisters rushed towards the offending noisemaker.

The dancing glow of a candle moved with these messengers, it illuminated the winding hallway, the dead eyes of family members strapped for all eternity upon the white washed walls and finally the blanched face of a terrified mother.

"What's wrong?" night cap askew, her night dress rumpled, Susanna Vandom looked perfectly dissimilar from where she stood panting between her daughter's doorway.

The candlelight flickered, and then moved; now it coated the face of a younger girl—the culprit. "Oh mother!" Cornelia's face was the ideal picture of terror. Her large ice blue eyes appeared marvelously out of place on her face, especially when contrasted with her ruffled golden hair.

"What's going on?" a third voice traveled over the hushed whispers of the servants, as they undoubtedly spread their own varied events of what was transpiring.

"Mother," Cornelia gasped, reclaiming their attentions, "A _man_—I just saw a man at my doorway."

"_Cornelia,_" the holder of the last voice moved her way through the crowd, "You were dreaming."

"Irma, I wasn't!" the older girl snapped; her hand clutched the front of her nightgown in a truly theatrical fashion. "I know what I saw—he was _staring_ at me…Mother, I swear to you…"

"Now, now Cornelia," Susanna's voice faltered, a slow lingering coldness ran along her spine. "Don't swear…I'll have the men search the grounds." Her face bore a worried expression; her eyes however, remained frozen.

"What about Will?" Irma spoke from her mother's side. "She's outside in that house by herself…"

"There will be no need to search Susanna." Cornelia screeched at the sound, causing the entire party congregated at her door to startle.

Dozens of eyes turned towards the source of the rasp, not to be disappointed. The flame faltered, and then surrendered to advances of the cold night air.

The Count Phobos, barely visible in the passing moonlight stood, quite heedlessly at the center of the hall.

"Oh Phobos," Susanna gasped, "Well, it's only you—" Her features softened, although her amethyst eyes remained unbreakable.

"I was just returning home, from my—journey and I suppose I just mistook Cornelia's room for my own, my apologies for awaking everyone."

His stance was so casual, and his words so slick and convincing, that truly, no one there that night entertained the thought of not trusting him. So, with several groans, and a few hurried 'good nights' the staff made to disperse, their slippered feet slapping at the hardwood floors as they left.

Cornelia looked immensely relieved, and had joined her younger sister in the dark corridor. "Thank goodness—I have read in the papers about a madman who has been on a rampage in Jamestown."

"I assure you Cornelia," Phobos breathed, the motion caused a lock of silver blonde hair to dance across his forehead, and both sisters' hearts to flutter. "I am no madman."

Cornelia giggled, while Irma sighed…how this man had married their mother, they would never know.

Susanna's face tightened when she noticed her daughter's behavior. "All right now, that's enough excitement." she clasped her hands in front of her. "Off to bed."

"I still don't think that Will should be alone out there—" Irma hadn't moved, instead she mimicked a threatening pose aimed towards her mother.

"Do you _want_ the measles…you _want_ to have all your hair chopped off, _well_ then go right ahead and sleep outside with Will!" Cornelia retaliated ruthlessly, for her hair was a magnificent treasure in her mind.

"She is not _alone_ Irma," Susanna began "Jeffery is with her; now off to bed, you can send word to your sister in the morning."

Irma didn't pursue the topic; her own honey locks were also far too valuable to even think of contracting the dreaded measles.

She too slinked through the haunting darkness towards her own bedroom, after which Cornelia closed the door to her chamber.

Outside, embodied in total darkness, Susanna allowed her anger to become exposed. "What do you want with her?" she hissed, her voice was low, steady, but still menacing.

"Nothing of course—nothing." Phobos smirked, but then his jaw trembled and a hallow laugh exploded.

"I want you out—tonight, I want you gone." her voice was terribly close to breaking, but she held fast, willing herself to keep the façade secure.

"Now, now," the man whispered, drawing a delicate hand forward so that he could brush her delicate face. "Let us not become hasty here…"

"If you think that I don't know what you're doing—I can't live like this anymore…_go_ now, go quietly, and I won't alert the authorities."

Phobos frowned, the taste of annoyance rose into the air. "It was never my assumption that you didn't _know_…I simply assumed that you cared far too much for you precious daughters and you life to utter a word of it to me…I see that I was wrong."

The same chill slid down her back once more, like the fingers of death she thought. The hair at the base of her neck stood on end, and her breath caught in her lungs. But she couldn't let the weakness show; she had to protect her family, her children.

"Go," she pressed. "You can't murder everyone in this house—leave now, or I swear that I'll scream."

"Hypocrite…" he smiled. "Although madam, it would benefit you not to underestimate me" he stepped closer to her, she turned her face away. "But I will obey my dear, despite the constant accompaniment of your _luscious_ daughters—this place tires me, so I shall be off."

He moved away suddenly, and her breath left her lungs in a sudden, dry gasp. The last she ever saw of him was the darkness engulfing his lanky physique.

* * *

News of Count Phobos' sudden departure spread like a thriving fire. All of Heatherfield was engulfed by the flames of gossip.

Although, truthfully, none were too surprised, in fact there was a very heated bet in progress at the local pub on exactly how long the relationship would last. A Luke Crook took away the massive sum of two hundred dollars for the clever bet of _five_ months.

Susanna made a great show all through it. The next day she appeared absolutely distraught, donning an exquisite black silk mourning dress when she arrived at the constable's office in town in order to report her husband's disappearance.

She had left soon after; her lovely cheeks tinged with the color of outrage when the constable had suggested that perhaps the Count had just been trying to escape her scandalous name.

And so she had returned home, silently cursing all men to oblivion; careful, of course to remain protected in her wall of mock indignation.

Her two (healthy) daughters were of course very supportive, although when she hadn't been looking they threw pining glances at Phobos' empty closets and vanities.

After a fortnight, Susanna had become utterly bored with feigning distress and the drab black dresses, so she began to plan, what in her mind were the joyous weddings of her daughters. (This being because she was now too old to be considered anything but matronly).

To her delight, the first suitor was found quite rapidly. The Baron Olsen's son, a magnificent lad, she had heard, who had just returned from studying Law in England, had a keen eye on marrying into the family.

Since choices were limited at best, due to the constant eruption of scandal of course, Susanna had been overjoyed.

Things were following her plans perfectly.

* * *

The attar of cigars mingled with a hint of whiskey swamped his scenes. From his uncomfortable post, lounged against the hard leather his dining chair, Caleb could only groan with his dissatisfaction of being forced to be here.

The place, despite being visited by some of Virginia's wealthier population, carried the unmistakable feelings of a second rate brothel. From the corner of his eye he could see a scantily clad doxy, her aged face embellished with rouges and powders, whispering to the others like her as she prepared to make her way to his secluded corner.

He shifted in his seat, preparing to leave this place…meeting or not. He was willing to bear the blunt of Taranee's anger if it meant that he would be free from this wench's company.

He was spared the decision when he was joined by his leader herself. She threw the nearing woman a ferocious glare, and thankfully, the other woman pursed her lips and turned away to the laughter of her friends.

"You're late." he muttered to his companion, who smirked widely beneath the darkness provided by the wide brim of her hat before pulling two unused chairs from the neighbor's table.

"I didn't realize that you would need my protection…" she specified with her head the woman, who seemed to have recovered from the initial rejection as she had now focused her attentions on a very reluctant looking youth.

Caleb felt his face warm, but decided to ignore this topic before Taranee could give it a chance to blossom. "Where's Dublin?" he stated.

"Outside." the darker girl rearranged her hat, a needed precaution so that the weary looking members of the pub wouldn't recognize her womanly…charms.

"He's coming." she added with a glance towards the door.

Edward Dublin was a large man, indeed when he entered the doorway his immense bulk took up most of the frame. He possessed lank blonde hair, which was constantly plastered onto his round face by sweat. He caught Taranee's glance almost immediately and moved towards them, forcing those in his path to nosily rearrange themselves.

The corner that Caleb had chosen mainly for its secluded nature now became the center of attention in the tavern, what with the appearance of a very dark, very feminine looking youth and the town's Constable. In fact, after noting Dublin's presence several men and women had scampered home.

Dublin wasted no time in mentioning the stares that they were all receiving; instead he dove right into the reason for his meeting.

"I trust that you both know of the murders." he stated.

Taranee nodded, but did not answer, Caleb followed her lead.

"Fifteen women dead, four missing, all in the last seven months…" he paused to expel a heavy gasp of breath. "Absolutely horrible…it's a small town you know, we all just want a safe home for our children…" he trailed off.

Caleb watched Taranee for her reaction…none came.

"What does this have to do with us?" she muttered after a long silence.

Dublin cleared his throat and replaced his handkerchief. "I need your help…your capture of that maniac in Boston is renown…and of course that bastard in South Carolina…"

"Of course…we aren't cheap." Taranee met Dublin's gaze, and for a moment he seemed shocked to see such cold indifference in the eyes of any woman. But it was ephemeral.

"Name your price…" he muttered, "I'll do whatever it takes."

The glossy light of a nearby lantern only highlighted the smile on Taranee's face. She extended a fragile looking hand to Dublin, which he readily accepted; "Then you have yourself an agreement Mr. Dublin"

Caleb shook his head at Taranee's nonchalance; it still chilled him although he had been witness to it for almost three years now.

"Any suspects?" she murmured, catching Caleb's gaze and wordlessly demanding the he pay attention.

"Actually…yes," Dublin swallowed, Taranee suspected for dramatic effect. "There is one…a gentleman by the name of Phobos—"

"_Phobos_?" Taranee scoffed. "Is that his alias?"

Dublin threw the woman a surprised glance; he wouldn't have suspected that someone could find any sort of humor in such a situation.

"No…" he recovered. "That's his actual name…he's from Greece or Europe…" his words died and he became lost in thought.

Caleb was fast becoming aggravated with this man…if he was the head of the law enforcement, then it was no real wonder that this Phobos character was still happily murdering to his heart's content.

"Well, what does he look like?" Caleb pressed; Dublin looked up, seemingly stunned to find another person in his presence.

"Actually…" Taranee recaptured Dublin's attentions. "What sort of murders are these…"

"Horrible," Dublin's face blanched. "These women are beaten…tortured…raped" he seemed on the verge of tears and Taranee, to avoid an upset repeated Caleb's question.

"Tall…blonde," his thick jaw wobbled curiously as he went on. "His hair…I remember was incredibly long…but his appearance does not matter." he concluded.

Caleb felt his patience desert him.

Dublin continued without being prodded. "We have already arranged a plan that we believe suitable…"

"Mr. Dublin, my men and I usually come up with our own devices—now if you could continue with the description." Taranee put in.

"I appreciate that Miss, but you need to understand just how much this means for those of us involved here…such a small town."

At the over exaggerated sound of worry that lay beneath his words, even Taranee remained silent.

"Phobos was married when he was here—I believe that the family knows much more than they are letting on, and that is where you would come in."

Caleb's ears pricked up at this new turn in conversation.

"I don't follow Mr. Dublin…" said Taranee.

"His wife…the Countess Susanna Vandom Ha—she's preparing to marry off her daughters…well the oldest one, I'd suspect."

"I still don't understand…"

"Well perhaps if you would allow me to finish," he allowed his suggestion to hang in the air, stagnant and harsh.

Taranee bowed her head.

"She's already found a suitor, the son of the English Baron Olsen…we have arranged with the Baron…a _switch_ of sorts," he paused to gasp for a breath.

"You want me to give you one of my men…" she contorted her face into the shallowest of smiles. "Very clever Dublin."

"The woman completely refuses to talk to the authorities…she says we didn't give her any attention when _he_ left her…" he shook his head. "Well, I believe that if we had someone there to infiltrate the house—gather whatever knowledge that they could…"

"Why can't one of your men do it?" Taranee challenged. She seemed rather insulted by the idea that one of her troop would be lowered to mere _spying_.

"The Countess already knows all of the men on our force—it is a very small town." he drawled.

"It's an _arranged_ marriage then…" Taranee paused, thinking about that unfortunate girl whose life had been forced out of her hands.

"Well, Mr. Dublin…if that is what you want." she stood, glad to be away from the hardened torture of that leather backed chair. "I'll give you one of my men to do what you wish with…the rest of us will begin the search for this Phobos fellow, now—"

"Where is he?" Dublin interrupted.

"Where is who?" Taranee hissed through clenched teeth.

"The man you're providing…we need to have him tonight, the Countess expects him tomorrow."

Taranee's face fell in outrage. "And you tell me this _now_…when I have no time to prepare one of the younger boys—"

"What about him?" Dublin pointed at Caleb, who jumped the suddenness of his inclusion in this discussion.

"No!" Taranee challenged. "He can't go…he is my second in command!"

Several people turned to re-focus their attention towards the suspicious table that lay shrouded in darkness, and to the array of people crowded about it.

"Taranee, it's all right, I'll go…" Taranee was livid, and Caleb tried to quietly calm her.

"This is outrageous!" she continued, ignorant to Caleb's words.

"How long would it take…a few weeks—even you always say how much women love to talk."

The impact of her partner's words finally struck her. They stung. "You forget that I am a woman!"

Several gasps and murmurs followed this confession, but still Taranee went on. "I won't allow it—Mr. Dublin, I apologize, but I cannot accept your terms, the arrangement is off—good luck." she pushed her chair aside, and designated that Caleb follow her out.

Dublin's fat hand grabbed her arm; the grip he possessed was gentle for such a massive man.

"Please…it's that…my daughter has gone missing…she's been gone for two weeks now—if that bastard has her then…please, she's just fifteen."

The fury melted from Taranee's face. "Fifteen, you say…" it was only a whisper, but it was enough for both Dublin and Caleb to realize her decision.

He would go.

* * *

**Author:** Well, there it is. Do you like it? If you don't, that's tough since I've already got chapters 12 and 13 written down and am now in the process of writing chapter 20. And no I have no intentions of writing this in order.

**Dedicated**: To all the Will x Caleb shippers who have gradually converted me into their cult…err, club.

**Disclaimer**: I disclaim

**Edit**: Thanks for mentioning the comma mistakes—English was never my strongest subject. I think that it's fixed now.

**WARNING**: This is an AU piece of fiction. This means that there will be no guardians, no Heart etc. And characters will behave a bit—differently, for example, Taranee. I have taken the main characters and chucked them deep into my complicated mass of plots. Although I did try to keep the character's basic traits, although Taranee is just Taranee if she were a bit more BAD ASS.

The story is set in 1856. That'll be mentioned in the next chapter, and for those of you wondering, in the olden days it was a popular belief that cutting your hair, was a cure for measles.

The reason for my doing this is after a series of complaints where several people complained that all WillxCaleb fiction had the exact same plot. I was outraged, so I did this. You have to admit, I have one hell of an imagination to my credit.

Enjoy yourselves! And reviews always make my day. hint hint


	2. Chapter 2

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

Chapter Two

* * *

"You are so _stupid_ Will." Wilhelmina Vandom cried out in frustration at her awkward situation.

She was trapped…well, caught rather, in the woody fingers of the century old elm tree that had always kept a firm watch over her bedroom window.

Currently, it was her enemy. She moved to tug the knotted cotton of her dress from the gnarled fingers of the twigs, but succeeded only in loosing her grip.

A scream escaped her lips and she fell, and then landed miserably on the hard earth floor.

It hadn't been the first time—God only knew that it wouldn't be the last. The old tree had provided her with a means of escape from her overbearing family since she was a mere thirteen.

And she had been falling out of it for five years. It seemed like a fair price to pay for a few hours of freedom—and now she even regarded herself as immune to bumps and grazes that littered her skin.

Forcing herself up, Will made a valiant attempt to smooth out her moss colored dress. It was a long preached fact that it was the ugliest thing ever to have been stitched on this side of the world; but Will didn't care. It would serve her purpose for today—and maybe even tomorrow if she could scrape the dirt off the back in time.

From inside the stately brick house Will could hear the frantic cries of her pursuers—well, her sisters. They were fighting, as they always were, probably over some garment or trinket, and of course they would want Will to play peacemaker.

With that single (most horrific) thought running through her mind, Will started out at a run, towards what she prayed was her sanctuary.

* * *

Misery, true and overwhelming in its purest form had intertwined itself completely with this carriage ride.

'_Why am I surprised?'_ Caleb asked himself. Of course he had known that this experience wouldn't have been satisfying; with being trapped in such a tiny vicinity with Constable Dublin, (whose mouth had not found the need to rest for even a single second in the past three hours) and Taranee's dire warnings still cackling across his already tormented mind.

Although Taranee had agreed to Dublin's plan, she was still found to be utterly opposed to it. And even as Caleb had prepared to board the carriage a few hours prior, she had pointed out numerous flaws, in what could have only been described as a desperate last minute retreat.

Dublin had ignored her for the most part, even when she had started jogging along next to the vehicle once it started off. His attentions were captured however, when she emitted a noise that startled the horses, and almost forced the entire party onto the ground.

After that he had taken her aside for another lengthy conversation; and when he returned, Taranee had seemed satisfied.

Dublin hadn't shared what had been discussed, even though Caleb knew it had been about him. Although he had managed to rattle on about almost everything else, from the Susanna Vandom's disreputable history, to his own ever changing taste in cravats.

Now, Caleb had begun to feel sick.

The constable had only recently embarked on exclaiming his unadulterated joy at the fabulous country scenery that was rushing past them in swirls of yellows and greens. The fact that he had most likely seen this "landscape" all of his life, or that they had both been staring at the exact same thing for the past hour didn't deter him.

"Look at that oak over there—you don't see trees like that in the city do you boy!" he chortled at his own joke, and pushed his head even further out of the window.

Caleb didn't bother to describe to him the numerous ways that he could be decapitated if he continued to ride like that—truly, the mere thought of initiating conversation with this man was so unappealing.

Although he did wish that he would remove his rather substantial head from the gap…the summer heat was already sweltering without him impeding the flow of air inside of the carriage.

Another jolt of vehicle nearly launched them both from their dry, leather seats. "And what wonderful roads you have here," Caleb mused, "We don't have these in the city either."

"Yes, yes," Dublin agreed recoiling his head, the sarcasm in his companion's voice had completely evaded him. "I do love the country life…Sarah, my daughter…she loves it as well."

Caleb felt his face soften and his annoyance subside, he prepared himself to offer the man at least some form of comfort—

But then the carriage jolted again…this time not to recover; but to topple haphazardly onto the dry country road, leaving its occupants very shaken.

* * *

If he had thought that the ride here had been horrible, then the collision was beyond words. In the confusion, Dublin had been tossed, quite erratically through the air, and had landed in a befuddled heap, on the side of Caleb's face.

Dublin had flailed in the excitement, hence kicking his young cohort several times, before Caleb could find a way to escape the entanglement. Luckily, he had been able to crawl through the carriage window, but Dublin, due to his considerable girth hadn't been so fortunate.

The damage was far worse on the outside, Caleb soon discovered, their driver seemed to be unconscious, and the horse had torn from its reins and was now darting at full speed… in the opposite direction.

"Dublin," Caleb knocked at the pane of glass, against which Dublin's thick arm was uncomfortably pressed. "I'll have to go get help…how much further is it to the Vandom's estate?"

"A mile perhaps—it's at the end of this road," came the muffled reply, "Just let me get out here…I'll go with you!" And with that statement the overturned carriage shook precariously.

"No, no…" Caleb made sure that he was speaking as rapidly as possible, so as to avoid interruption. "I'll go; I'll be back soon."

"All right then…I'll just stay here!" Caleb heard Dublin call before he hurried off.

* * *

Upon retrospect, Will had forced herself to admit that escaping from the house, only to expose herself to the incredible July heat, hadn't been in the company of some of her more logical ideas.

Why, even the sun seemed to be mocking her, sending its upsetting rays onto the earth with the sole purpose of attacking her exposed skin.

But Will would not be deterred; for the thoughts of her eccentric mother paired with her overpowering sisters acted as a repellant, pushing her steadily onwards.

_Perhaps it was these shoes_, Will decided; she had stolen this pair from Cornelia months ago, after realizing that her mother had decided to burn most of her personal articles when she had taken ill with the measles.

Cornelia had never cared for comfort, only for fashion, and the boots showed it. Will stopped for a moment, to unlace the heavy black leathers…when her eyes caught sight of the pond.

It seemed familiar, she thought, and then soon recalled why. When they were younger, their nanny, frustrated with the constant quarrels and screams, would pull them all towards the pond for 'swimming lessons'. Then, Irma had been too young then to participate, so for the most part it had been her and Cornelia racing through the sparkling blue waters.

These lessons had ended soon enough however, when after Cornelia's eleventh birthday she had deemed swimming, and this pond, "un-ladylike". And had immediately run and told their mother, who had banned all "swimming" immediately and sacked the poor nanny.

They had returned some years later Will could remember, and that time when both she and Irma had collaborated to toss their sister into the water. It had succeeded of course, however Cornelia, upon reemerging, had been livid, and her relations with her sisters had never quite survived the incident.

The pond, for its part in the episode had remained unchanged. It was still coated in the same heavy green shrubbery. But at the moment, to the eyes of Will, it served a far more alluring purpose.

'_It would be so un-ladylike_' she could already hear Cornelia's voice rebuking her, it merged with her mother's '_You'll ruin your dress_'. Well perhaps that wasn't so accurate, her mother would probably _thank her_ for sparing her eyes the sight of the detestable frock…

_She'd have to protect it in that case_.

She spared a glance up the road; the heat rose and curved along the dusty earth path. But it was free of human company, the left side proved to be equally empty. So, with a grateful sigh, Will toed off her uncomfortable (though stylish) shoes, and in one swift movement she had shucked the cotton dress into the shrubbery.

Then, wearing only a very indecent looking chemise, she gave out a conspicuous yell, as she plunged off the raised bank into the cool waters, gladly allowing the refreshing liquid to soothe her abused skin.

The sun stared down at her in his fury, he had lost the battle—this girl had won by seeking refuge with his enemy, the water.

She allowed herself a couple of laps about the circumference of the pond, before ceasing motion completely, laying flat on her back, secretly pretending to be Ophelia.

It was then that she heard it…footsteps. They thudded into the blissful ignorance of her mind, causing sheer panic to envelop her.

_Oh shit_.

Who would be coming here now…her mother…her sisters…either option was not pleasing.

But she had found one that was. With bated breath, as silently as she could, Will ducked into the cover of the bushes, praying that whoever this intruder was, they would continue walking.

She squeezed her eyes shut, maintaining the childish hope that she would become invisible.

There was no such luck however…on either account.

"Hey—you!" the voice that trickled down towards her wasn't high and finicky as she had predicted; instead it was deep and commanding. A man's voice.

_Oh shit_.

She tried in vain to press even further into the muddy banks. "Boy—can you hear me?"

Wait…_boy_? Her eyes shot open to spot a lone figure staring down at her from his position on the raised earth landing. She could see his masculine form silhouetted against the sun's hazy backdrop, and certainly, every aspect of his overly casual stance annoyed her completely.

And her hair had already grown to her shoulders! Really the ignorance of the male species!

"I am not a boy!" she screamed at him, folding her arms about her chest out of irritation… and modesty…exactly how much could he see from his perch?

"You're not?" to Will's disgrace he seemed genuinely surprised. "Well then what's a girl doing down there—did you fall in?"

She could feel the slippery dampness of the mud dribbling along her neck; she had pushed herself so far into the bank by now…and even then he had stepped closer. _Oh God_ could this situation get any worse? This was punishment; she knew it…punishment from a divine authority because she had feigned the chills so to escape church last Sunday.

"No, you chauvinistic brute, I did not _fall_ in…I happened to be swimming, before _you_ came along." She hoped that he would catch her not so subtle hint and leave…

He didn't, instead he folded his arms across his chest and threw her a glare of haughty impatience. She managed to duck even further under the pool, now only daring to believe that the water wasn't as transparent now as when she had first seen it. She could feel a horrible redness begin to spread from her neck across her face.

"I apologize," he noted, although he didn't sound sorry. "Now, can you _please_ come out of there—I need to talk to you—properly."

Was he _mad_…well, of course he must be lacking _some_ mental bearings, he was still standing there despite seeing the ferocity at which Will had chosen to glare at him. "No, I won't come out—"

"And why not?"

So he was _stupid_ as well, well pity for the mentally handicap wouldn't calm her anger! "Because…I am in no…_condition_ to receive—company." Unquestionably by _now_ her face must match her hair.

He showed her absolutely no sympathy. "Well then get dressed." He spoke as though addressing a small child.

"No!" she screamed, and he muttered something silent in exasperation. "I won't get dressed…not in front of you, a stranger, who might I add has just insulted my femininity and morals!"

He snorted, "I doubt that any girl who decides to go for a swim, half naked in the middle of the day…so near to a public road has that many _morals_ to worry about."

Her jaw unhinged, causing her to unintentionally swallow a mouth full of water. "Well," she sputtered, "Had I known that you would be here—I wouldn't have…"

She stopped, feeling utterly frustrated.

"Get off my property—" she began, feeling vengeful. "I should have you arrested!"

"_Your_ property?" her threats seemed to have no effect whatsoever, instead he seemed interested. "You live near here?"

"I have no intention of telling you where I live—lest you come at night to steal me away." This was becoming far too difficult; Will realized with a groan, this man…whoever he was, could only be described as a selfish, stubborn…jackass.

Why couldn't he just move?

"You seem to think very highly of yourself."

"No, it's just that I think so lowly of you!" She shouldn't have left home this morning, she should have listened to Cornelia and Irma bicker with the same forced tolerance as always; _anything_, would have been better than this.

"Look," he sighed after a pause, "My carriage turned over on the way here…I came to get help, so can you _please_, come out of the water and go get me some?"

She stilled, trying to take in his words. "Oh _right_…and why should _I_ believe _you_?"

"Why shouldn't you?" he had unfolded his arms to run a few careless fingers through his hair. She was wearing him down; Will had recognized a sign of defeat.

"Well, since I am only the simple, ignorant female, perhaps you should tell me."

"There is a man behind me, and he is unconscious, another one is trapped inside of a carriage, that by all estimates cannot contain him, and should anything happen to either of these men, oh _simple_, _ignorant female_, whose fault would that be?"

Damn him! A surprise assault; and she could already feel her tenacity slipping into the depths of the pool.

"All right." she surrendered, "I'll come out…but turn around—and hand me my dress—" she indicated towards the crumbled heap of cloth which was now clinging dangerously from a nearby branch.

He complied, by tossing her woeful dress into the water beside her. "Lovely," Will muttered to herself. "Well, I see that your aim is as good as your manners—"

"Do you want your shoes too?" he asked, but didn't wait for a response before tossing them into the pond as well.

"No, I—" the heavy leather collided with her head. "Thank you," she emitted a hiss that was coated with sarcasm. "Now turn around."

Again he obeyed, although Will did wait a good few seconds before daring to stand up and hastily tug the garment over her head.

Fumbling with the last few buttons, and fetching Cornelia's shoes from their watery grave, she began the unhappy climb towards the discourteous young man, who upon closer inspection was seen to be wearing a smirk fit for the King of France.

"Happy?" she seethed once she was standing before him, still stinging from the humiliation of it all.

He didn't answer her; instead he had focused his interests on something behind her, Will, out of curiosity turned to look.

* * *

Waddling through the dust and debris of the summer temperatures was a massive man (indeed, by himself he seemed to occupy half of the road), he looked absolutely ridiculous in his long dark coat and bowler hat.

From behind her, the offensive young man groaned.

"Is he a friend of yours?" Will asked.

"Not…entirely…" he was heard to mumble.

"Ahh, there you are my boy!' he stopped gratefully before the two of them, and bent over, gasping for breath. "And I see that you've met Miss Vandom as well…" his sentence was punctuated with wheezing.

Will's forehead wrinkled in confusion. "Do I know you?" she asked suddenly.

"What?" he breathed, propping a massive hand against his brunette friend's shoulder for support; although the latter seemed wholly disgruntled at this contact.

"Oh, no, no, Miss Vandom…I suppose that you don't know me, you did have those dreadful measles the last time I visited—" he reached for a handkerchief to mop his drowning brow.

"My name," he straightened up and extended his hand, "Is Constable Dublin, and I—"

"My mother says that I'm not to speak with you," she disregarded his friendly gesture, and his chubby hand fell miserably to his side, she then turned to the brunette; "She never said anything about you—but I'm certain that no mother would want their daughters in your presence…"

"On the contrary," Dublin seemed to have overlooked her initial disrespect. "Your mother is the reason that he is here."

She ceased the tugging of her dress, which, spiteful to the last thread, and had chosen to cling to skin, making her feel very heavy and sore. "What?" she asked, certain that she had misunderstood.

"Well, didn't she tell you—" Dublin brightened, the other man frowned.

"No…"

"—Why he's your husband-to-be, he's here to marry you!" he laughed as though he actually found such a dreadful idea comical.

Abruptly, Will felt very faint, actually her stomach churned dangerously and she was certain she would be ill. He legs gave way, and she sank, unhappily onto the heated ground, where she buried her face in her hands; allowing the streams of water that caressed her hair to dance along her countenance

"There's no need to be so excited child—" Dublin's voice entered her frantic mind; for already she had concocted three feasible plans of escape.

"I'm not excited…" she hissed at him, "I'm distraught!"

"Can you just run along home now, we still need help for our driver," her _fiancé_, whose name she didn't even know, peered down at her, his lack of concern for her perilous situation was exceedingly aggravating.

"Don't you ever tell me what to do!" her hatred for him had intensified if nothing else during the last minute, and it threatened to consume all of her other emotions in the process. "I won't run along…in fact I'll stay here all day if I wish!"

He raised his hands to the air and seemed to praying for some type of celestial intervention; Dublin tried to calm her, by patting her on the back and muttering useless terms meant for encouragement, whilst his partner began to pace the road, occasionally whispering something about 'girls' and 'whiskey'.

She was honestly beyond the point of compassion, to think that her mother was going to marry her off—to _him_. To that egotistical, uncouth oaf!

Yes…_her mother_. She was the root of all this evil! Why was she sitting here, baking in the sun with these two knaves, when the mistress of all of her suffering sat at home, perched in absolute comfort, only too happy to watch her suffer!

Will brushed Dublin's hand away, and stood up, though with some difficulty due to her weighted dress. "I've decided that I shall go home—but not because you told me to!" she waved at finger at the frustrated man, "I'm going home because I want to…talk to my mother"

She pivoted on her heel and walked, as briskly as she could under the circumstances, all the while trying to ignore the squeals of rage beginning secreted by Cornelia's shoes.

* * *

Caleb watched her go, feeling unreservedly flabbergasted. Even Traranee wasn't this…

"Quite a _spirited_ young girl isn't she?" Dublin was heard to say.

"Obnoxious is a more suitable adjective…" Caleb turned away from the sight of the chaos of red hair now sprinting towards the blurred outline of a house.

"Well, you haven't met the rest of her family now have you," he chuckled, "No worries old boy, you'll be there for a week, maybe two, nothing _excessively_ terrible could happen by then!"

"I suppose not." He admitted, but the task ahead did seem ominous; he tugged a hand through his tortured hair; determinedly ignoring the memories of the young Miss Vandom glaring at him while contained by the pool.

"How did you escape from the coach?" he asked, secretly glad for a change in conversation.

Dublin's eyes glinted with excitement from underneath the sweaty mask. "Simple, my boy…I had a similar exercise during my training for…"

Caleb suppressed a groan…he just couldn't escape this wickedness of this day.

* * *

Will bounded into the foyer as though hell itself was upon her heels…perhaps it was— she hadn't spared a glance behind her to see if those two had traveled alongin her wake.

Her rage had only deepened with her breathless state, what with the unlikely combination of her drenched attire and her stinging skin...if she saw her mother now…

"Welcome, welcome!" Will didn't have to look very far, for at that moment the accused glided into the entry way, as though propelled solely by a gust of wind. Her arms tossed in the air, obviously caught in the middle of some exaggerated gesture, she looked about the foyer expectantly, until her eyes fell upon the sight of her dripping daughter.

"Oh, Will it's just you…" she frowned, her hands falling to her hips. "Get off the carpet!" she bounded forward, preparing to shove, kick or throw the girl from atop of her precious décor.

Will managed to sidestep the attack, grateful for her good reflexes; her mother however, clearly overcome by concern for her the safety of her rug dropped to her knees, surveying the damage.

"Will…you're all…wet" Irma entered; followed by Cornelia, neither commented on their mother's…odd…behavior, so Will felt as though she shouldn't either. The pair of them did seem rather—_pretty_ today, Will thought, laden with feathers and broaches.

Even her mother seemed to be celebrating something, for she had finally discarded the heavy muslin "mourning" gown that she had purchased after Count Phobos had run off. In fact, a more shocking detail lay in the realization that the house seemed _clean_, well presentable; there was a noticeable absence of hats and jewelry, which had always seemed to decorate the Vandom household.

"What's going on?" Will asked first, her bitterness momentarily calmed by inquisitiveness.

It was Irma who answered first, in a dry sort of voice, she muttered. "Cornelia is getting married."

"You too?" Did her mother have no shame? Well, Will knew that she didn't, but still… marrying them _both_ off like this?

"What do you mean 'you too', who else is getting married…is it that Eloise girl from across the creek…I'll bet she's pregnant!" Cornelia seemed to be talking to herself, earning a few wary looks from her sisters.

"No…well there's a man, well, two men…and they told me that they were here to marry me…they said that mother sent them," Will paused remembering her anger, she turned towards her culprit, who it seemed was oblivious to the overhead conversation and had withdrawn a handkerchief, making futile attempts to dry the carpet out.

"Mother is that true?" Will cornered; Cornelia too looked confused, while Irma appeared to be on the verge of a breakdown.

"Why is everyone else getting married but me…I've always been left out!" she moaned.

"You can have my husband if you want," Will declared after hearing no answer from her mother. "He's the most heinous person that I've ever met!"

"Worse than Uriah?" gasped Irma.

"Ten times worse!" she stated, "And I swear that if I'm forced to marry him…I'll…kill myself…no wait, I'll just kill him, he deserves it more!" she prepared to launch into a very detailed explanation of this man's beast like qualities when their mother finally spoke up.

"Will, you really shouldn't be so overly _dramatic_." her mother criticized, even after helping herself off the floor, where she had determined that her precious antique rug was now safe and sound.

"And you can all rest assured," she rose an elegant hand to cease the conflict, "He isn't here to marry you Will, he's here to wed Cornelia, she's the only one I've decided should be married."

She gave Cornelia a pompous glance.

"Why?" Will blurted out, well off course she hadn't wanted to wed that despicable buffoon, but still, Cornelia marrying him made no sense. "I'm the oldest—why is he marrying _her_?"

Cornelia utterly enjoyed honesty, in fact she relished in any opportunity given where she could describe to anyone their faults and downfalls, so of course when the question fell upon her ears, the response was immediate.

"Because Will, you are far too boyish, loud and boorish…and well just look at you!" she indicated the sodden green dress, "You are simply not socially acceptable." She smirked.

"I'll have you know that the only reason I am in this state is because your future husband…is such a _swine_, that he threw my dress into the pond…" she trailed off, that hadn't been what she had intended to say.

"What were you doing in the pond…_without_ your dress?" Irma looked excited; years of hiding numerous gothic novels under her bed covers had given her an affinity for conflict.

The redhead's cheeks burned at the memory. "I was swimming…he said that his coach had gotten into an accident…and I…"

"Do you see now?" Cornelia huffed, "And if you ask me…"

"Which no one did." Irma put in.

"If you ask me," she continued, although louder this time, "The dress looks better now, thanks to my _future husband_, the darker color matches your sickly complexion."

Irma prepared a retort on her sister's behalf, but Susanna spoke first. "What did you say about his carriage?"

Will shrugged, unconcerned. "It toppled over he said, which I think is a lie…he was so devious."

"How devious?" Irma was suddenly upon her, her eyes shone with excitement, now that she had been informed that Will would be joining her in spinsterhood, she seemed to have cheered up remarkably.

Susanna however emitted a shriek. "And you tell us this now…sweet Jesus…he could have been attacked by wolves after all of this time!" she placed a hand against her forehead.

"There aren't any wolves here…_unfortunately_." Will began, but broke off, there was no stopping her now.

"Jeffery!" Susanna cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled for her butler.

Cornelia finally seemed to realize the danger in the situation, she began to pace, palpably terrified. "No, but, I haven't even seen him yet…he can't die!" she collapsed into a nearby chair and began frantically fanning herself.

* * *

Jeffery was as old as the elm tree outside Will's bedroom, although not as sturdy. He was a loyal family servant, having been there through three marriages, even weathering the difficult journey across the Atlantic to be in Susanna's company.

His entrance into the foyer was one of unavoidable magnificence. He was attired in a billowy white shirt, luminous green vest and red velvet trousers. Indeed, his clothes would have been ridiculous enough without the addition of his fur tipped boots.

"Yes mistress!" he swaggered to his mistress' side, immediately tumbling to the ground in an attempt to kiss her extended hand.

Yes, he was fully infatuated with Susanna, truly the only thing he cherished more than her company was a bottle of Brandy…or whiskey…or wine…or well any beverage that had been left to ferment for over five years.

"Jeffery!" Susanna clutched her butler's aged hand. "Our guest has arrived…but I fear that a horrible tragedy has befallen him!"

"No," Jeffery wobbled to his feet, the smell of current wine still adhered to his breath. "What kind of tragedy?"

"An accident!" Susanna's eyes bulged out of her angular face. "And now I fear that he might be carried away by…gypsies!"

Next to Will, Irma giggled. "Gypsies?" Cornelia breathed, and then moved her fan with an increased heartiness.

"Oh no, madam!" Jeffery hiccupped. "I shall form a rescue party immediately!" And he rushed off in a flurry of fluorescence.

Susanna pressed a fisted hand to her heart, before rounding on Will. "Go upstairs and get dressed, and do _try _to look decent for our dinner…wear…well, you'll look nice in…oh, just get dry!"

She moved to Cornelia, crouching down next to her. "Come now Cornelia, all is not lost…love will triumph!"

Will snorted, "Love…they haven't even met!"

This time it was Irma who stared at her with disgust, "If its fate Will, then knowing each other doesn't matter!" She scolded.

"Go get your parasol…and your bonnet," their mother said to Cornelia.

"Why?" Cornelia stopped her frantic fanning. "Mother, you aren't expecting me to go out there in that…weather…I might sweat…and it won't do me any good to meet him when I'm fetid and soaked!" It seemed unacceptable to her that she should have to do something as humble as perspire.

"We'll walk slowly" Susanna coaxed, "And just think about how exciting it will be for him, to see his future wife, a regal beauty, leading his rescuers…" she paused for dramatic effect.

"Can I come?" Irma asked, now, completely entranced by Susanna's idealistic vision.

"No!" her mother snapped. "You'll be upstairs helping Will finding something nice to wear."

Irma pouted, and looked at Will as though her inability to dress affably was her fault.

Just then, Jeffery re-entered, clutching a half empty bottle of wine. Behind him stood practically all of the male staff, brandishing brooms and pots in the preparation for the gypsy hunt.

Cornelia jerked forward, pulling a bonnet and her parasol from the nearby closet.

"Someone fetch the carriage!" Susanna bellowed, in between tying her own bonnet's strings.

And then they were off. Irma watched mournfully from the sidelines and Will with a sort of resentment.

It was really a cherished world where girls who had memorized color codes were considered more socially acceptable than girls who generally preferred the mud and marsh to the stifling indoors.

* * *

**Author:** I hope that this is good. I'm a bit feverish, and I can't promise you that I'd have it finished anytime soon, so here you go! I'm trying to do about 5000 words per chapter. But that's not going well. Not that I have too little, I'm wrting way too much.

I had an estimate of about 60000 words, but there is one, small, small, scene that takes up 5000, but I've got the whole thing already planned out in my history note book, and that at least is going well.

This chapter was actually edited because it started bordering on 6000 words.

I slaved over Will and Caleb's meeting, so I hope it turned out all right. I'm trying to create one of those hot, tension filled romances, and I hope that it goes okay.

I'm actually waiting before I put in my making out frenzy, which is new for me, since characters in my stories are usually in love by now.

Right now I'm home due to the cold, but soon (May/June) I have very important exams to do, so most of my writing, if not all, will be done on Fridays, when I'll have time to not study. I am willing to sacrifice movie night to write this!

Errr…Will's behavior is going to be explained, and if she comes off a bit Mary Suish, but I'm trying some teenaged angst/rebellion, so I apologize, she will soon return to our loveable, shy sweetheart.

Taranee however I will not apologize for, I know that by chapter 10 you'll all hate me for what I'll make her do, but for now, she rocks my socks. Hay Lin will be making an appearance, can't tell you when though (because I don't know). And Phobos and Cedric shall return, of course.

And although I do tend to laugh at those afflicted by this, I have gone and created too many characters. Usually, I'd kill some (Cornelia) off, but unfortunately, _some_ needs to stay alive for this one. We'll see how I manage. And finally, I changed the genre, because I realized that one paragraph containing a fight scene hardly qualifies a story as being action/adventure.

So thanks for the comments, this was one long rant…And more reviews are appreciated, reading those things actually gives me something to do.


	3. Chapter 3

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

* * *

Chapter Three

Life, as unique and wonderful as it can sometimes be, also possesses the astonishing quality of surprise. And how does surprise creep upon us! We, the unsuspecting travelers on life's train ride.

Sometimes we, as stubborn as we are, tend to ignore life's surprises…we blame them on sheer ignorance on our parts, or on retribution from the Gods above.

Even now, as Caleb stood in the dry dirt road, heavily tormented by both the afternoon temperatures, and Dublin's rabid storytelling; the spectacle that captured his attention was certainly not what he had expected.

Caleb prided himself on an iron gut; for he had been a member of Her Majesty's army before he had taken up with Taranee and her collection of men, and the things that he had witnessed with _both_ groups—well, simply put, had made the gruesome descriptions of that murderer's deeds seem like some wild adaptation of a bed time story.

So what had he expected? Well, perhaps the sight of his so called red headed _bride to be_, (fully repentant now of course) rushing forward to dote her attentions upon him, accompanied by several efficient stable boys, who would have his carriage fixed in a matter of minutes, and have Dublin on his way home soon after that.

Unlikely as that vision of perfection had seemed at the time, he had never suspected that its absurdity would be out done by the reality.

Out of the waves of steam now being given off by the chalky road, he thought he could see what looked like a band of men viciously waving cleaning appliances by way of actual weapons; as they neared he prayed that he hadn't been hearing them chanting an unrecognizable version of _Yankee Doodle_ with the words "gypsy" and "hunt" used in rapid succession.

Beside him, even Dublin fell quiet. Now, it was obvious, the heat had gone to his mind, he was clearly hallucinating.

All hopes of such a satisfying ending were hastily shattered however with the abrupt arrival of a carriage into the background…a carriage that was apparently being driven by _Father Christmas_.

For all Caleb knew, that he would never be feverish enough to conceive such a…a…well, what the hell did you call something like this?

The band of men scattered off to the sidelines once they noticed the dominating sound of the horse's hooves behind them. The dark vehicle swerved from side to side, accompanied by yells and grunts from the coachman, whoclearly ( probably because he was so perceptibly preoccupied with _staying on_ the carriage) had no clear intentions of slowly down. He thundered forwards…at a speed that blurred his clothing into one loud streak of incandescence.

He moved straight past Caleb and Dublin, who had of course relocated themselves on the sidelines…only to realize his mistake a moment later and call his horse to a hasty stop.

The animal rose upon his hind legs, visibly disgruntled, and for a moment the carriage shook treacherously. It rested soon enough however, and once assured of his own safety the driver jumped down, took an enthusiastic swig from a liquor bottle and then pulled open the carriage door.

He was rewarded for his haste with a shrill _smack_ across his head with a parasol; the occupants of the vehicle were evidently in sympathy with the horse.

He muttered an apology, but the rider would have none of it, she ejected herself from the carriage and onto the road where she smoothed out her rose colored dress in between muttering curses at the bumbling man, who had now thrown himself at her feet, sobbing out an apology, she ignored him, instead her dark eyes traveled across the scenery, where they seemed to be searching for something…

They raked over Caleb.

…and they found it.

* * *

The woman darted forwards, causing the man attached to her hemline to fall forward, hence inhaling a large mouthful of dirt, beforeimmediately engulfing Caleb in an astonishingly rough embrace. She pulled away after some time, only to caress his face and arms as though he was some long lost relative.

Dublin cleared his throat, but she overlooked the noise. "Mister Olsen…you're safe!" she seemed to be on the brink of genuine tears.

It took Caleb a moment to recognize that she had been referring to him. "Why…wouldn't I be?" he glanced at Dublin, who looked, if possible, even more helpless then he felt.

"What out _here_…in the _wild_!" she stared at him, her dark eyes filled with a ravenous passion. "Oh you men…you always feel as though you must conquer the world!"

Caleb made no attempt to hide the incredulous look that was currently distorting his features. _Who was this woman?_

The conspicuously dressed man (still propped pitifully in the dirt) spoke then. "What about the _gypsies_?" he hissed, his eyes took in the foot high shrubs surrounding them with a sort of wariness. A grunt of agreement came from the now sweaty band of men, who had just picked themselves out of varied hiding places to join the conversation.

"Gypsies?" Dublin paled.

"Yes…" the dark haired woman moved away to ponder. "Well, Mister Olsen must have slaughtered them by himself…isn't that right…felled three of them with a single bullet didn't you!" she turned on Caleb with a glare of pure admiration.

"Err…" he floundered. "What?"

"And so modest!" she whimpered.

"Is that what that girl told you?" he questioned, "About gypsies?"

"What girl?" now it was her turn to look confused, although for her it was only momentary, "You mean _Will_?"

"_Will_?" he was fast loosing his ability tolerate this conversation, "No, I said a _girl_…your daughter I would think."

_Yes_, mused Caleb, any type of familial relation would make sense…well it would at the very least explain the outlandish behaviors of all these people, genetics was always a decent excuse, truly it was one that he had used for a great deal of time throughout his own life…it wasn't long before another, more sinister thought snapped to attention in his mind, so then this woman before him had to be the notorious Countess…

He studied the rambling woman with escalating awareness. It would never cease to amaze him exactly how the descriptions of people could never paint an accurate portrait. From Dublin's explanations of divorces and selfishness, he had been prepared for an obese old wench, covered in the spoils of her profitable marriages, fully prepared to scrutinize her future son in law if only to ensure that he was good enough for her equally spoilt and obese daughter.

Apparently that was not to be the case; the woman standing before him was gorgeous, and it wasn't hard to understand why or how she had managed to receive four marriage proposals. Indeed if it hadn't been for the few tell tale signs of her age: the wrinkles about the eyes and the ribbons of grey now streaming across her dark curtain of hair, then he would never have guessed that she was his supposed fiancé's _mother_.

And those eyes, they were dark, powerful, almost controlling…something inside of him stirred, he had seen them before.

"Yes, that's her…" she scrunched her nose in memory, causing him to crash out of his stupor, "And no…she didn't…she was very vague as I remember it…"

"Well, we need your help…it's our driver, he's unconscious, we need to hurry, we have been away from him long enough." He moved in the direction of the fallen carriage, a handful of the band of men moved to follow, but they all were blocked by this capricious woman.

"What's the hurry—it isn't as though he can get any _more_ unconscious," she giggled, an action that clashed horribly with the sight of her aging face, "And I have someone that I would like for you to meet!"

She skipped over to Caleb and reached for his hand, tugging him towards their carriage.

"But…" he pulled his arm back, absolutely stunned by this woman's conduct. Could _she_ really be involved in Phobos' schemes, if so then what did she know, what could this man have told her?

She frowned at his reluctance. "All right," she surrendered. "Where is this driver?"

"Just straight down this road…near Potter's Creek, you could just send some of these men, I do think that they should know where, it's such a small town." Dublin seemed glad to finally have a use for his voice.

"Wonderful!" she clasped her hands together underneath her chin and signaled for the men to find both creek and driver.

"Now," she pressed, "There is someone that I would like for you to meet."

The lady dragged him towards the carriage, with shocking strength for such a slender person, before stopping outside the door to call out for whoever was still seated inside.

And a parasol emerged, followed by a head, and then a body…and finally the full figure of a statuesque girl had materialized.

She was beautiful, and even that statement didn't seem to do her justice. It was miraculous to him that she could actuallyappear _regal_ in the muggy summer's heat. Her silken golden hair was curled upwards; revealing the feminine stroke of her neck, every slight movement of her evoked the overpoweringscent of roses.

"This is my daughter…your betrothed, Miss Cornelia Hale Van—Miss Hale," she cleared her throat awkwardly.

The girl facing him dipped in a slight curtsy, behind him he could feel Dublin jab him in the back.

"_Bow!_" he hissed past his ear.

"My betrothed…" his gaze left her gorgeous face, although Dublin's advice didn't register, "But, I thought that it was the girl from before…"

"_Will_?" the blonde, Cornelia, seemed to be appalled. "Is that what she told you?" her cerulean eyes turned to glare at her mother.

"No…" interjected Dublin, sensing conflict, "It is simply that she is the oldest of the girls…so I assumed that—"

"No, change in plans!" her mother wiped away all concerns with a dash of her hands, "Cornelia is who you should marry…who you _shall_, sorry". She smiled uncomfortably, and then sighed. "Well this sun is simply unbearable!" she fanned herself with her hands, "Jeffery…get the carriage in order, we'll be going back home!"

"Yes madam." the man immediately clambered back into the driver's seat, to the horse's distaste.

"Come now Mister Olsen," she prodded Caleb in his back like she would cattle, "Go inside now, I'm certain that my men are quite capable of rescuing your driver."

"Their driver?" inquired Cornelia, her gaze dancedblatantly over Caleb's face.

Dublin opened his mouth to reply, but her dark haired mother won the race of words; "Oh yes Cornelia, their driver was apparently tackled to the ground and knocked unconscious by those gypsies."

"Gypsies!" the girl gasped, nearing Caleb with an increased interest, "Oh…they aren't still _here_ are they?" she reached out to clutch Caleb's hand in her own.

"There weren't any…" Caleb moved to pull his hand from her grip, feeling a bit shocked by such a _proper_ young woman's forwardness. In England where he had grown up, the girls were usually shy, awkward, quiet, and those who weren't were generally whores and mistresses alone. But then again, he remembered, this was America, land of the free and all of that. He supposed then that he should allow her to caress his hand, he needed to play the role after all…and besides there were far _worse_ things that he could be forced to do.

"Any problem!" Susanna continued for him, blissfully unaware, or indifferent to her offspring's advances. "Why yes, Cornelia darling, he struck down five of them with a single bullet!"

_Where did she derive such stories?_ Caleb wondered, but soon had to refocus his thoughts onto the horrible task of being herded into the carriage.

Susanna had them all rearranged three times so that Cornelia was finally sitting by Caleb's side, clutching onto his forearm with a type of possessiveness that he found overwhelming.

Only after that did Susanna appear to be satisfied, even when Constable Dublin entered the small space (hence crushing _her_ into the carriage's wall) she didn't once complain. Such were the burdens of a mother, she reminded herself. And she did seem to have a heavy burden to bear.

* * *

"It isn't fair Will!" Irma whimpered from where she lay sprawled across her sister's bed. "Why does everything exciting happen to _Cornelia_?"

Will didn't bother to answer, she was far to engrossed in drying out her already clumping hair. Besides, Irma had been repeating the exact same complaint for the past half an hour, and Will doubted that she would discontinue her droning even if given an answer…so she chose to utilize her energies elsewhere, like in the impossible task of trying to look, in her mother's words: _decent_.

"What does she have that I don't?" came the unwanted interruption.

Will dragged a comb through the crimson knots, pulling out far too many strands in the process, she sighed before deciding that going bald was not worth looking decent. She chucked the comb across the bedroom, narrowly missing Irma's limp figure.

"Blonde hair, blue eyes," Will's voice echoed into her sister's consciousness. "It's a lethal combination."

"But everyone says that I'm prettier than she is…well not, _prettier_, but they say that I have softer features, and that I'm better humored, so then why should I have to suffer because of that fair haired fancy!" she rolled onto her stomach and screamed her frustrations into her sister's pillow.

Will proceeded to undo the buttons of her once cherished dress. "Aren't you supposed to be helping me get ready?"

Irma groaned. "I can't…I fear that I am overcome with the realization that my life has been lived in the shadow of my twiggy sister!" she produced a sob for effect.

The dress slid effortlessly from her shoulders and Will ran into her dressing room to hide her indecent state from the meddling eyes of Irma.

"Irma," Will called to the depressed girl, "You don't have to worry—revenge will be yours, Cornelia is now off to marry the most offensive animal in the world!" she replaced her soaked chemise with a drier one, and started to run her hands along the dull fabrics that lined her closet.

Irma didn't seem convinced, and in any case, she refused to loose this argument. "But it still doesn't make any sense!" she somehow found the strength to roll onto her back, if it was only so that her words would move with more vigor.

"Not really Irma, I suspect that offensiveness is hereditary and quite beyond our powers to help." Will paused before the clothes, finding that she very powerless in the situation.

"No, I mean mother letting Cornelia marry!" Irma snapped, "When you're the oldest…it doesn't make any sense!"

Will stifled a snort in the arm of a heavy black velvet frock, sensibility hardly applied to their mother Will considered, for here was a woman who had once demanded that the entire household scrub themselves with lemons, because she had read that it was good for one's skin texture. By the end of the lemon season that year both servants and family alike were bruised and pink from the acid that had been poured onto their skins on a daily basis.

"I'm not complaining Irma." Will replied instead, she wasn't in the mood for describing her mother's downfalls at the moment.

"But…you haven't even had your first season yet…much less Cornelia, and now marriage…and why would Mother want Cornelia to leave home instead of you…she loves Cornelia!" the brunette allowed the river of abnormal facts to pour from her mouth at once.

Will had to admit, her sister did have a point. And if the usually flirtatious and lighthearted Irma had been forced to moaning on a bed in despair, then perhaps, she thought, she should take this more seriously herself.

Will prepared a response.

"Is he that handsome though?" Irma sat up; Will heard the bed moan at the movement and dismissed her answer, Irma was apparently momentarily shaken from her self inflicted depression.

The vague image of startling emerald eyes jarred Will's senses, inadvertently causing her stomach to twitch, but she ignored it. "No," she fingered a particularly offensive yellow dress, "No, he actually resembles a toad."

"Really…is he old…or fat?" each nasty description seemed to breathe new life into Irma.

"No…" Will had decided on a unspeakably revealing pink dress, the same one that had gotten her removed from church lastEaster and made to do three hours of penance due to the priest deciding that such a piece of clothing was immoral. Yes, her mother would see _decent_…

She cocked a malicious grin while she tugged at the strings of the satin number. "But I believe that he will become fat very soon…as atrocious people do not keep their looks for long!"

"But…I thought that he didn't have any looks to keep..." she mourned, her head falling upon a pillow once again.

"Why does it matter Irma…you'll see him soon enough!" she drew the material over her head.

Irma was quiet for awhile; she seemed to be thinking, unaware of Will's curses and grunts at trying (unsuccessfully) to dress herself.

"Well, I can't wait until I'm married," Irma declared finally, sitting up again, "And I'll bet that my husband will be ten thousand times better looking than Cornelia's!" she added with scathing venom.

"There are more important things in life than marriage Irma." Will said to her sister, glad that she wasn't there to see her turbulent attempts of fastening the back of the gown.

"Like what?" came the skeptical reply, "I swear Will, sometimes I think that you want to be a spinster!"

"An appreciation for independence does not make me a spinster Irma." Will interposed.

"No, but behaving the way you do, does!" the younger scolded.

"Not you too…"

"It's true…you'll never get married unless you start behaving more feminine, no man wants to marry a little boy."

"Well, I never asked to be a girl!" the feeling of euphoria at her victory over the lacings had vanished, "I would much prefer to be a boy, when I prefer to do boy things, and to have a boy's manners!"

She stomped out the closet. Irma's mouth fell open.

"Will, _no_…" she warned.

"No, what?" the red head reached for her hairbrush, and proceeded to harass the tangles in her still damp hair.

"You can't wear that…mother will kill you!" she had left her makeshift seat to stand beside her sister. "She'll kill _me_ for letting you wear it—and I can't die without having seen Cornelia's husband!"

"I like this dress," she lied, "And I don't see what the fuss is about, I don't have your voluptuous…assets, and I don't have Cornelia's height…the dress looks entirely too plain on me."

"_Plain_ isn't the word," her eyes traveled along the revealing neckline, "And to think you tried to wear this to church!"

"Church people are far too boring, and besides Jesus understood why I had to wear this dress, he forgave me." she shrugged, briefly attacking the frizz at the front of her head.

"And how do you know that?" Irma looked about for a shawl.

"Ask _him_ why," Will quipped, "And I'm not wearing a shawl, it's too hot outside!" she tucked a lock of red hair behind her ear.

"There, I'm done!" she threw the brush aside, hoping that it would be reunited with his partner, the comb.

"I'll certainly say that you're done…it's a pity that you and the old mule never agreed Will, you'll have to be buried next to her, I'm certain of it." Irma hung her head in indignation.

"_Oh well!_" she faced her sister and glowered. "You are being very monotonous today Miss Irma Lair, I don't like it when you behave like Cornelia…"

"I'm too miserable to be like Cornelia…when she is the cause of my struggles." The brunette sighed.

"Not her Irma, its men," Will commented, "They ruin everything."

* * *

Cornelia was ecstatic. She couldn't help the immense feeling of jubilation at seeing her soon to be husband. Well, it wasn't really jubilation at his appearance, although in her mind, that was reason enough to celebrate, but jubilation at the simple knowledge that she had finally won something over her sisters.

Well, _sister_, since it was Wilhelmina who was her greater concern at the moment. Certainly, Cornelia admitted, it was she who had inherited the figure, the disposition, and generally all the charm that her parents had had to offer.

But Will had been born first, and those eleven months separating them had caused her nothing but grief. As children it had always been that she was positively ignored, but now in the prime of her youth, Will's birthright was proving to be far more dangerous than just _being ignored_.

To her great distaste, it was Will who had been invited to all of the local balls, because _she_ had always been too young in the eyes of society.

And over the last few months it was Wilhelmina who had been encouraged to go to Boston for a visit to their mother's sister, although to Cornelia's delight, she had contracted measles on the trip.

The unfairness of the situation had dawned on her only recently, how terrible was it that Will got to go to everything when she couldn't even appreciate it! Last spring she had gone to a picnic with their cousins, only to demand that she participate in the boy's three legged race, since she said thatthe girls were too flimsy, then she had overturned the boat with the entire party after deciding that she wanted to row. And of course,_ then_ she had pranced off, Cornelia remembered to go to the Potter's start of summer ball, only to have attacked Mr. Potter's nephew with a vase when he had commented on her freckles.

As a consequence, neither sister had been invited this year. Cornelia had fumed for days as a result. Will was single handedly ruining their family's already fractured reputation, and she would continue to do so if left unhindered, why, in January she was expected to have her first season in London, where she would drag the family's name to unexpected lows.

And to think that their mother refused to do anything about it, well that was until now after years of pleading, it seemed that Susanna had finally wised up; Cornelia smirked, she was marrying off the superior sister first, rather than the oldest.

With her married, respectfully of course, it would become apparent that the Vandom-Hale-Lair family had all these years been mislabeled, she would be a heroine in her mother's eyes, and Mr. Potter would regret having never invited her to his ball! She was the victor, she had taken home the prize, not Will, she smiled, not Will.

And what a prize it was! Corneliacaptured another glance at the man sitting next to her, and her breath caught in her throat, he was stunning. She reconsidered, should she call a man stunning…it didn't matter, he was. His strong jaw, heavy brow and impassioned green eyes would leave any woman breathless. And now he was all hers.

She bit her lip at the thought, resisting the urge to squeal. And to think he had almost gone to Will. Cornelia suppressed a shudder.

She had finally escaped her sister's shadow…although she spared a bit of sympathy for Irma, she was still trapped. Although, news of Irma's exploits with some form of stable hand had already traveled all through Virginia's inner circles. It seemed that Irma wouldn't need Will's help to ruin her reputation.

* * *

The carriage eased to a stop with a remarkable grace in the cobblestone driveway of the Vandom's home. The gardens before the house were magnificent, and resembled a British property rather than an American. Romantic statues of half naked chubby children decorated the lawns, and everywhere there were scattered flowers in no particular order. Their colors, the reds and yellows and whites meshed oddly as did their aromas, causing an intense, although not particularly congenial perfume to infiltrate the nostrils of the arrivals.

Dublin sneezed; Susanna forced herself not to frown.

_Why was he here in any case?_

Instead she refocused her liveliness, and readied herself for phase two of her seduction. "Here we are!" she tried to wave her arms so that she could indicate some sort of splendor, but alas, Dublin's magnificent girth had impeded all movement. She had to instead settle for a far less inspiring 'head-jerk' motion, which of course, didn't do her wonderful house justice.

The carriage stopped fully soon after, and the scurry of footsteps heard was determined to belong to Jeffery. Indeed, almost immediately after, he had yanked open the carriage door, with all of the grace of a seven year old street urchin, and Dublin pushed himself out.

Susanna followed, although hindered by the stabbing pains in her body, the result of having ridden in a carriage with an ogre she assumed. Jeffery held her arm as though she would break, leading her to the safety of the foyer, all the while ignoring the other passengers.

"I'm all right Jeffery," she muttered in his ear, although she instinctively turned to glance at the carriage, where to her gratification, her daughter had knowingly attached herself to the young man's arm. Cornelia was her mother's child after all!

"Never mind, take me to the parlor!" she urged the older man on. "Mr. Dublin…come along inside…dinner." She added, supposing that those words were the only thing that could force this man to hurry.

* * *

"They're here Will!" Irma hopped excitedly from her post at the door, a place that she had willingly taken to await what was in her mind, the final bullet that would still her splintered heart.

She bounced up and down on her toes, feeling utterly excited, they hardly ever had visitors, and when they did, they certainly were not handsome ones, and even though she was depressed beyond mortal comprehension, curiosity had acted as a temporary dose of renovation.

Will sat before her dressing table, her hand propped against her chin, scowling at her reflection. "All right," she whispered, and rose to her feet, clearly anticipation wasn't contagious.

Irma held her sister's arm, "Don't wear that dress…_please_,"

Will rolled her eyes, but ignored her pleas, instead suddenly quickening her pace so that she was out the bedroom door in a heartbeat…before staggering back in. She retrieved the discarded shawl that Irma had suggested, and with a dirty look, tossed it around her slim shoulders.

"Thank you." Irma whispered to her sister as they descended the wooden staircase, slowly nearing the sound of their mother's voice and someone's forced laughter.

"It wasn't for you…" Will hissed back, her eyes still firmly planted on her moving feet. "I simply decided that that snake has already seen enough of…"

Will paused when Irma gasped into her ear. She shot her an annoyed glare but the youngest seemed to be ignorant. "He's beautiful!" she hissed, her voice was a mixture of revulsion and amazement.

"Men are not _beautiful_ Irma." Will hissed back, although making sure not to seek out the man's face in the miniature crowd. "Well then, I suppose _he_ might be—"

"You lied!" Irma was appalled, "You told me that he was hideous!"

"Isn't he?" Will sighed, growing tired of this discussion, "Well I suppose that he might be handsome if you like that arrogant, pampered prince look."

"And _here _are my _late_ daughters!" Susanna's voice interrupted the whispered conversation, with the sound came four pairs of eyes, all staring…judging. Will pulled the shawl a bit closer to her frame.

Irma unlike her sister, thrived in social conditions, and immediately rushed forward to introduce herself to Cornelia's betrothed, nearly toppling to the ground in a low curtsy. Then with a giggle, and to Cornelia's horror, she rattled off every single thing that popped into her hyperactive little mind, all the while running her hand along the man's sleeve and batting her lashes.

Meanwhile, Will watched the display with a growing admiration for Irma, her sister's exaggerated response would certainly stir Cornelia's temper; and Cornelia's fury would disturb their mother's. Will would have never thought of Irma as the rebel, but yet, there she was.

Will, to her own disappointment, found that she couldn't move; her feet felt as though they were carved from granite, her throat felt dry as though she had been eating cotton. Her head fell to stare at the tiles, where she could make out the vague image of her wild red mane in the surface.

_Why had she come down here?_

She _hated_ people, people stared, people talked. The uneasiness swirling in the pit of her stomach roared. If Irma was the rebel, then apparently she was the shy, awkward doomed to die a virgin, red headed sister, which honestly no one was too surprised about.

It was funny in her mind…well perhaps not funny, but interesting at least, that only moments ago in the face of that green eyed stranger she had managed to reveal the personality that she typically reserved for people she had known all of her life.

She immediately attributed it sheer annoyance. He had called her a _boy_, what was she supposed to do, stay there and stare at her toes…shefrowned at the thought of him standing above her on his platform, patronizing, laughing...

Impulsively, her eyes moved to settle on him…only to catch him looking her. The complete embarrassment of the situation finally struck home, he had seen her, naked basically, in a pond…there was nothing good about this—now he was probably gloating.

The color immediately drained from her face and her gaze plummeted to the floor. Wait, what was she doing…she was letting him win, _no_, she wouldn't give him that pleasure!

She forced her head up, but couldn't find the courage to look at him again. Luckily, her mother, after having seen the activities of her youngest had rushed the dinner (cooked or not)out of the pots and was now ushering everyone into the dining room.

Will followed them, although shesensed that it was a terrible idea from the beginning, and she thatprobably should just return to her belovedupstairs.

As if to overstate the point, _that man_, appeared in front of her blocking her path, she contemplated turning around…who needed food anyway?

But he had already started talking. "I recently discovered that my fiancé was not to be you." He stated, his voice was low…it caused her heart to speed up, she noticed his accent for the first time, it was smooth, calming...

What was wrong with her? What was wrong with him? Why could he make her hate him one minute and then in the next have her making a blushing fool out of herself? She suppressed the urge to groan, suddenly feeling very irritated.

"And I have recently overcome the joys of hearing that statement." She replied dryly, after having calmed her heartbeat sufficiently.

He stared at her for a moment, where she shifted uneasily in her spot, refusing to move, but allowing herself the luxury of fidgeting.

The silence was deafening. She hated the feel of his eyes on her, it was worse now than in the water; back then feeling had been out of panic, now it was out of fear, why was he still standing there, why wouldn't he move, was he preparing some long winded insult—she should insult him first.

_Tell him about his hair, men hate that_, a voice warned.

For the first time in history Will was actually glad to hear her mother's drawl, "Come, come now Mister Olsen…don't let Will hold you up, we've got first class seats right here!"

Her mother reached through the doorway and pulled him in. Will expelled a breath that she hadn't realized that she'd been holding. Her chest rose erratically below her clenched fists.

The priests were right, she lamented, having men see you naked (or half naked) before marriage was, if not a sin worth damnation, at least a horribly awkward situation.

* * *

Dinner was unspeakable as she had imagined, well any prolonged exposure to her family was dreadful, but this time it was seemingly made worse by _Mister Olsen's_ presence, oh she wished that she could knock that look off of his face!

Well, it wasn't so much of a look, as it was the "bored-as-hell" expression that everyone seated at the table, save her mother, and Jeffery (who memorized anything that thewoman spoke) and maybe Cornelia (who had three facial expressions to begin with so who could tell) wore.

But still she wanted to knock it off! Her fury had returned from its momentary hiatus, totally rueful for abandoning her in her time of much needed comebacks and witty comparisons. How dare it go away and leave her only to contend with "shyness" and "don't you dare make eye contact"!

She was embarrassed now more than ever before, first came the pond incident; next he was reliving it in the foyer! Pig!

She huffed again, feeling very heated because of the shawl and her irritation. This was easily the worst day of her entire life. She snuck a look at him from under lowered eyelashes. Unbelievable, he was still looking at her…so he was reliving it at the dinner table as well! Enough was enough!

Will looked to see if anyone else had noticed his unashamed staring.

_Strange,_ they were allgawking as well…wait, was there something on her face?

She began to claw at her nose. "Wilhelmina, you'll lead the prayer for us." all eyeshardened on the redhead who was at the moment trying to scare the nose off of her face.

"No." the response was sudden, and the reactions expected…a gasp from Jeffery, a giggle from Irma, and a _look_ form Cornelia, who had now found a second reason to blame her sisters for the disaster that these introductions had become.

"I beg your pardon?" her mother's voice held a false sweetness, it was alluring, and it drew its prey nearer, like a moth to a flame.

"I said _no_ mother." Will knew that it was probably best for her to remain quiet, but there was a spark of mutiny now ignited in her chest, and it refused to be ignored.

Irma's giggling had died down, and Jeffery now tentatively reached for his second bottle of wine (left to ferment in the fields of Verona mind you), while from across the table Dublin cleared his throat and mentioned something about him praying instead, but his comment went unnoticed.

"And why not?" the charm had vanished from her mother's voice, repelled by the indifferent aura being emitted from her eldest.

"I was told by Sister Emma that God made my hair red on purpose…I haven't spoken to him since." she concluded with a toss of her head, directed at her mother, whose jaw dropped in outrage.

"A _heathen_…" Susanna sputtered, and a flailing arm reached for Jeffery as she prepared to stand, "Your father would toss in his grave!"

The butler had emerged by his mistress' side, making placating noises and running his own trembling hand along her back.

Will rolled her eyes at the sight of the two of them sputtering and sobbing; whereas Cornelia could only hang her head in embarrassment, occasionally peering through her curled blonde locks to see her _fiancé_, whose expression seemed relentlessly directed towards the door.

After a time, Susanna somehow managed to calm herself; then, with one delicate white hand pinching her nose, she directed her offspring towards the parlor, watching with a look of purest distress as the girl skulked away.

"Well, wasn't that entertaining!" she laughed unexpectedly, the exact moment after Will had slammed the fine glass door to the other room shut. "Will does so love to tell jokes—they never are actually funny though."

Dublin joined in with the unnatural laughter, and soon Jeffery too began to chuckle, although he had felt obliged to do so, fearing for the safety of his pay packet.

The mirth ended as quickly as it had begun, and with a joyous wave, Susanna signaled for Irma to pray instead, while she went away to discuss a few things with Wilhelmina. Still giggling to herself, Susanna walked towards the parlor door, and entered.

"All right," Irma clamped her eyes shut, and clasped her hands together beneath her chin, completely mimicking the actions of the charismatic nun who she had spotted last Sunday at mass. "Our father, who art in heaven…"

"_What the hell did you think you were doing!" a scream heralded the collision of mother and child._

"Hallowed be thy name," Irma tried valiantly to drown out the awesome sounds now coming from the room beside them.

"_Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to arrange any sort of marriage for any of you—isn't it bad enough that the entire village thinks that I'm a whore, but now they have to believe that we're all a pack of witches!"_

"Thy—thy kingdom come…" one curious eyelid had already caved at the pressure, now its evil influences were causing its brother to rebel as well.

"_Don't blame me for what those idiots think!" Will's voice trickled out beneath the delicate glass door. "I was just stating my opinion on the matter, or don't I get an opinion…did you give that to Cornelia too?"_

Irma had long ceased calling upon the forces of God, realizing that it was futile. She didn't have the authority that Sister Emma had to lure her makeshift congregation's attentions away from the heated battle, not when she too was engrossed in the proceedings.

"_You've always been jealous of your sister," Susanna quipped. "Well it isn't my fault that she prettier than you are Wilhelmina, for Mr. Hale was a very handsome man before that horrible gout afflicted him…"_

"Well it makes sense that she would get any physical attractiveness from her father—and I'm not jealous!" The glasses standing upon the table trembled perilously.

"_Go upstairs…you are obviously far too immature and ungrateful to be expected to appreciate anything—so go on now, and I don't want to see you down here again until you've sorted out that attitude young lady!"_

Another incoherent grunt followed, as well as a gasp from who they all assumed was Susanna.

"_What did you call me?" the voice protested._

There was a yell pursued by the sound of retreating footsteps, and afterwards, Susanna reentered, looking all together flustered and disheveled, although beaming.

"Wilhelmina has decided that she's been under some stress recently, and will retire early this evening" she signaled for Jeffery to attend to her chair. "Did you all say grace—Jeffery, tell Margaret to send in the dishes."

There were no words that could be used to describe the situation; in fact the woman appeared to believe that no one had been privy to her very loud argument just moments prior.

"So Caleb, was it?" she directed her attentions towards the brunette. "Tell us more about yourself…you're so quiet now,"

Caleb started at the question; his eyes were still focused upon the unique glass door, his thoughts regrettably forced upon the girl who had just stormed through them. He had never seen anyone like her…so unbelievably rude, so unnecessarily stubborn. But at least, he thought, her frustrations weren't directed towards him alone.

"Well…" Susanna pressed; her voice was accompanied by a sharp jab from Dublin.

"I…there's nothing much to say…" he stammered, feeling incredibly foolish later.

"Oh the strong silent type" Irma noted, while throwing a scandalous wink towards her sister.

That of course couldn't have been further from the truth—which was of course that it was truly too difficult to get a word in while in competition with loud mouthed women and sniveling constables.

**

* * *

****Author**: I am just completely overwhelmed by the response to this. Thank you all for the support. After watching re watching Pride and Prejudice…Keira Knightley version, I am feeling very romantic. Then I ran off to watch Little Women, feeling romantic here ladies and gents (unlikely). So I scribbled this down. 

Again I am writing too much, I was planning some more CxC interaction, but "sadly" there was no more room. Writing Will stuff is just so much fun!

So that line "god made my hair red on purpose…" was from Anne Of Green Gables, which I also watched this week, man I've been busy. So yes, I'm a dirty little line stealer, well if it works, it works.

I don't know how Will's shyness came out, I wanted to showcase that all that rudeness is just a front, but I never know how these things turn out. I'm no good with layers…but I guess that there's still time to learn, since at this rate, I'll never be done writing this.

Like many of you have been wondering, I'm sure:P, about Susanna's behaviors, yes there is a reason why she's doing this. Can't reveal much and I know that most of you have already figured it out, but just allow me the dignity of being the mysterious writer for once, so don't tell me that you know.

About school…screw it. My last exam is on June 8th so ideally that should be around the time of my next update. However I hate school, teachers and I have aspirations in my life further than I am going to watch Ice Age 2 when it comes out, expect updates, once a week hopefully, until April.

After that I'm on God's good humor. For the next chapter I was planning to up the rating to M, but since I'm writing 6000 words a chapter now, it has been pushed back. Why up the rating you ask? Nothing bad, just some Phobos stuff, and well I don't know how sadistic I'll be feeling, so you know, better safe than exiled, I would hate for all of you to have to come my story on my weblog, A.K.A don't report me! So until next time!

Reviews of course cheer me up especially when I'm supposed to be doing homework.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

Chapter Four

It had occurred to Will that victory shouldn't taste like this. Perhaps it should tempt her with the sugary flavor of exhilaration…or conceivably it could even carry the bittersweet tang of regret, but it definitely wasn't supposed to leave that dry, chalky trace in one's mouth, a flavor that she had been desperately trying to erase for the past half an hour.

Sprawled across her bed, fully clothed, as Irma had done only a short time before, Will felt…restless — tormented even. There was a wild turbulent buzz surging through her limbs, one that possessed the ability to convince her of the likely hood of very stupid actions.

Her feet dangled from the edge of the mattress, thumping an erratic, annoying tune against the wooden bed frame that only served to distract her from the sounds of muffled laughter, and clashing cutlery. The gush of hyperactivity pounded through her veins once again, and she bit her lip.

She was angry. That wasn't surprising to her, she always seemed to be angry recently, it was comforting actually…well, at least it was _safer_ than the other option of allowing her more unpredictable emotions access to her psyche.

Usually the option for calming her distressed mind would involve her climbing out of the nearby window and running off to some unknown location where she could enjoy the solitude of her own mind. But today, even that choice seemed unappealing – due to the participation of that horrible oaf _Mister Olsen_.

Oh God, how she hated him! Just the measly idea of him caused her chest to tremble with indignation – the humiliation of everything, and to throw salt onto the wound, he wasn't even apologetic.

Oh, she doubted that she would ever be able to leave the house again, although that thought immediately vanished with the idea of her mother, her sisters and her butler.

She would just have to wait it out then, she decided, perhaps she could live up here until he and Cornelia had left. And after that, she would return to her hiding place every year when they chose to return to display their unusually attractive children.

Her stomach churned with the idea of the two of them reproducing. She could already picture her future nieces and nephews dancing about her knees, calling her _Uncle Will_, and commenting on her spinsterhood.

The pounding tune grew steadily more consistent as her thoughts rambled onwards. Either way, her future seemed inescapably bleak. The dusty taste in her mouth intensified, to overlook it she pressed her hands against her face, until she could make out the shattered patterns of stars before her eyes; concentrating only on the obnoxious melody created by Cornelia's still damp shoes.

* * *

The dinner, as far as dinners went, was a tragedy. The rice was undercooked and the meat overcooked, but at least that seemed to create some form of equilibrium in the meal. Susanna made a great show of swallowing large mouthfuls of the cooking at a time, afterwards cringing and suggesting that they all follow suit, no one was brave enough to listen to her ludicrous proposal – well, save for Dublin, who was eating so fast that it was unlikely that he was actually tasting the watery mess.

"So," chirped Susanna while the entire room stared at her rapidly greening complexion, "Mister Olsen, you've studied in _England_…you know I'm from England, and Cornelia was born there – God save the King and all of that!"

"You mean the Queen don't you?" Caleb muttered absently. "She's only been on the throne for the last twenty years."

"Yes, well that's what I said wasn't it?" she giggled weakly, her face was now very flushed.

"That's what _I_ heard!" Jeffery put in, throwing his employer a very fond look over his glass of indistinguishable liquor. Caleb groaned privately, he should be knighted for his suffering.

"I say Mrs. Vandom, this chicken is exquisite!" Dublin motioned towards the piece of meat that was currently oozing off the side of his plate. "And this rice…wonderful!" he chuckled to himself prior to shoveling another forkful of the slimy muddle into his face. "Why, I don't even need to chew it!"

"Yes, Mister Dublin we scandalous widows tend to be very good hostesses," she smiled causing an odd radiance to emanate from beneath her amethyst eyes, "I do mean when we're not chasing after our departed husbands."

Seated across from Dublin, Irma snorted into her glass of water (the only thing that she had dared to put into her mouth) and ignored the look and subsequent prod that Cornelia offered her by means of admonishment

Dublin's mouth hung open in shock. Still, he managed to sputter, "I-I never meant that…"

Susanna stood at once, forcing the large man to cut his sentence short. "Do you know what I've just realized…it's very late isn't it."

"No mother, it's only just after three…" Irma mentioned, but withered in the stare that both mother and butler gave her. "I mean, yes, yes…it's very late…especially for this time of year." She corrected briskly.

"Very good suggestion Irma." Susanna clapped her hands together, "And so why don't you show Mister Dublin to one of our carriages, I'm sure Steven would gladly drive him into town!"

"What!" Irma rose to her feet with a passion, "I'm not doing that…let Cornelia do it, she never does anything!"

Cornelia made a small noise, which in Irma's opinion a squeal was very reminiscent of a stuck pig, but only glowered; Cornelia would prove that at least _she_ could remember her manners.

"Don't let my smile fool you Irma," her mother crossed her arms across her corseted chest, a motion that silently signaled the end of this conversation. "This is not up for discussion."

The haughtiness radiating from Cornelia was stifling, as a means of combat, Irma stuck her tongue out at her sister, before catching Mister Olsen's gaze and grinning with embarrassment.

"Are you done eating, sir?" Jeffery didn't wait for an answer before yanking the fork from Dublin's hands and signaling for a stout maid to take away the plate.

"It's been a really lovely visit Countable," Susanna darted towards the doors to the parlor and threw them open, "I would invite you to stay the night, but I wouldn't have you risk your reputation, it would be so un-lady like of me."

Dublin (exceptionally shocked) was now being pulled to his feet by a combination of Jeffery and two maids. He wasn't even standing when his hat and coat were draped atop of his corpulent head.

"Thank you for the meal, Mrs. Vandom…I mean Hale, I'm sorry, I never really know what to call you." Dublin floundered pathetically.

But pity was not in Susanna's heart. "You may not call me at all!" She tilted her head with all the wounded pride that she could muster.

With remarkable strength, Jeffery (on behalf of his injured love interest) pulled the man from the room, and Irma, still sulking, was forced to follow the pair.

* * *

"Well," Susanna, now appeared incredibly exhausted, and for the first time it seemed that the age showed in her face. "Now you two love birds!" she giggled again, before retuning to her seat at the head of the table.

"Mother!" Cornelia hissed, not out of embarrassment, but because she knew that appearing modest was very engaging to the male eye.

"Now, Cornelia, let's not beat around the bush here, it's always in our best interests to let the men know what we think!"

Caleb really didn't know what to think. This woman was obviously insane, two of her daughters had proved only to be less extreme versions of her, the third an unrealistic porcelain doll. All he could think of was the poor bastard that was actually going to marry into this family.

He had only been here for two hours at least, but he had already decided that any murdering madcap would have to be down right idiotic to dictate anything to anyone in this house. At least, he sighed to himself, this mission would be a quick one; he would simply ask a few questions (for Taranee's sake) and then leave.

No harm done, and then he could of course wander into the more physical work of this case. He imagined it was peculiar that anyone (male especially) would prefer the ghastly work of following leads and retrieving bodies to spending time in a house with four women.

By the time that he emerged from his cocoon of deliberation, Cornelia and her mother had moved into a corner of the room where they conducted a conversation under a veil of secrecy. From where he was seated, in a high backed mahogany chair, he could make out the whispers of "complexion" and "sacrifice".

Obviously nothing that he should occupy his time with.

* * *

"_Cornelia_, your complexion is really the last thing on my mind right now." Susanna hissed; not bothering to mention how much it had pleased her to realize that _her own_ skin had cleared up quite a bit since her initial collision with food poisoning.

"I'll get freckles!" this statement was spoken louder than the narrator had intended and Cornelia immediately looked at her fiancé when the echo sounded. He seemed to be checking his fingers…

"And that is why God invented the parasol – deliver us from evil and all of that." she shook her head in appreciation of God's supposed knowledge of women and their attraction towards any protection from the sun.

"This is ridiculous – I'm not going outside, _again_, in this weather!"

"Cornelia, listen to me – now this is perhaps the most important thing that I will ever say to you," Susanna's features changed to portray a gloomy sincerity, "Men, never want to be married, _never_, as women it is therefore our duty to lead them to the chapel!"

"I don't understand…" Cornelia gasped as her mother's hands grabbed her shoulders.

"You _lie_ child!" the brunette murmured, all the while rocking her daughter's slim shoulders to and fro. "Create for these men what they believe is the perfect woman, you'll swim to the moon if that's what they want, as long as it gets you married…"

"But mother!"

"No _but_ about it; after the wedding you can then reveal your true self and if you're already pregnant then he won't dare leave you!"

It occurred to Cornelia, that mother or not, she probably shouldn't be taking relationship advice from a woman who had so far been a part of _four _notoriously unsuccessful unions.

"Trust me darling, now doesn't a walk sound _lovely_?" Susanna seemed on the verge of being considered fanatical. Cornelia knew that it was probably in her best interest to play along…but wasn't a walk around the house just as "fantastic" as one outdoors?

She voiced her question, only to earn a startled gasp from her mother, "What did I tell you – it isn't the _walking_ that concerns me, it is the _outdoors_ that are important, few men his age want a woman who sits around _sewing_ all day…why to marry Thomas I had to pretend that I enjoyed fishing, so just be grateful that you're not in that boat…literally, you see it capsized."

Cornelia still seemed unconvinced of the value of sunlight, again she told this to her mother. "Fine then, walk around inside, and watch as Wilhelmina insults you and Irma leads _him_ to hell's gate!"

That did it.

"Mister Olsen," Cornelia turned away from her mother to address the man who now looked half asleep. "Mother was just suggesting that since it such a…_beautiful _day that we go for a walk…_outside_." she forced a smile, and praying that sincerity had followed the words out of her mouth.

"Oh, _Mister Olsen_ makes you sound like an old man!" Susanna interjected before he could respond; it was probably for the best, for the word burning his tongue was a hearty 'no', "Why don't we call you Caleb, after all, you are soon to be a part of this family!"

'_That's what you think,'_ he thought, withholding a smile.

"Certainly." He stood, and carefully, as he had planned out whilst sitting at the table, reached for the blonde's slender hand, even as Susanna cooed behind them.

It would have been far more quixotic, he knew if she hadn't stopped suddenly to demand that one of the maids fetch her bonnet, gloves and parasol – God forbid that the sun actually touch her.

* * *

There were to be no bonnets or parasols for Irma, who could only prepare wicked ways on exactly how she would get her revenge upon her mother and sister as she trudged along the foot worn path that led to the family's stables.

And Steven was no where to be found – hell why couldn't Jeffery have done this, he was the butler after all, although, Irma reflected, he was often better dressed than both her and Will…

Will was right, their mother was unendurable, and this entire thing had almost certainly been a ploy to get her out of the house, just so Cornelia could lavish her attentions on that Adonis of a man.

This was another strike against her the way that she saw it! She would never succeed in finding a husband _that_ gorgeous, in fact the only prospect that she had now to look forward to was Martin Tubbs, and since this spring's spoilt excursion within the broom closet with that stable hand, she highly doubted that he would be considered a prospect for much longer.

So, she was doomed.

The sun danced along her neck, making her feel very heavy and sore, behind her Dublin talked about the types of grasses that he could name.

Wonderful.

Not a moment too soon, she spotted the outline of the barn against the hazy blue sky. And Steven, in the company of one of the house girl's propped against one of the peeling white walls.

_What on earth?_

"Steven!" Irma yelled, refusing to feign politeness for a moment longer, the girl heard her bruised tone and rushed away, leaving the young carrot topped man to bear the full blunt of Irma's fury.

The boy swaggered over to Irma's side, only to cock an overconfident grin her way. "Yes," he answered an obvious attempt at being seductive.

_As if she hadn't seen him!_

"You twit!" she hissed at him, knocking the grin right off of his freckled face, "I have been looking everywhere for you!" He seemed shocked at her reaction, for usually she would at the very least _flirt_ with him, but that was before they had been caught, before she had realized a lot of things about their society…

"Well, my apologies Miss, but being a _stable hand, _it would make sense that you check the stables for me first –"

"Shut up!" the honey haired girl snapped. "Mother wants you to take this man into town – so do it!"

He rolled his eyes at her, but complied, trudging over to the old barn to retrieve one of the carriages, leaving a fuming Irma alone with Dublin.

"Do you know that you're a very pretty girl?" Dublin's voice shook her consciousness awake.

Momentarily, her anger, and her jealousy melted away. "Really?" she breathed, finding herself now very fond of this hefty man.

"Yes…you remind me of my own daughter," Irma's smile evaporated, her hazel eyes moved along Dublin's magnificent bulk and across his pudgy, pig-like face and she frowned.

Quite a back handed compliment wasn't it?

"Thank…you" she mumbled dryly.

"Of course…I haven't seen her in such a long time…" his aqua eyes were focused intently on the sky, as though he thought that only that wide expanse of blue could answer his questions.

"Why?" Irma had always regarded herself as being the friendliest of her mother's children, so she eagerly continued the conversation, blatantly curious about the details of the story. "Is she in Connecticut, I've heard that a lot of people are moving to Connecticut."

"No…I don't know where she is." His voice was so soft that she had to strain to hear it, and after the words crept under the walls of her psyche, she wished that she hadn't.

"I'm sorry," she darted a small hand outwards to cover his own; after the confession he, despite his considerable girth seemed completely frail – so vulnerable. "I'm certain that she's fine."

He smiled at her, a silent thanks. It was at that moment that Steven chose to interrupt them with the horrible sounds and smells of a horse drawn carriage.

"Well, I'll thank you Miss, for accompanying me here and of course for your family's hospitality," he tipped his hat to her before clamoring aboard the vehicle. It shuddered and nearly toppled with the addition of his weight, a motion (to Irma's pleasure) that caused Steven to cling to the sides of the vehicle for support.

She waved good-bye as it started off, feeling strangely glad that had obeyed her mother and left the house, for it had finally dawned on her that there _were_ far more important things in this world than marriage.

* * *

In Will's mind, everything seemed to be moving far too slowly. She had long stopped the beating of her feet, after deciding that it took far too much energy out of her, and was worthless, since it essentially bothered no one.

She didn't know how long she had been in her room, but now, the skies outside her window did look as if they were a bit darker. Before she had heard some shouts and snippets of conversation from downstairs and as curious as she was, she had forced herself to remain on top of her floral comforter.

She had toed off the heavy shoes and was preparing herself for what would hopefully be a long dreamless slumber when fate intervened.

Will hated fate, because in her mind first of all it didn't actually exist. Fate, to her was just frivolous people trying to give a reason for all of the terrible things that happened to them on a daily basis, destiny was fundamentally the same thing. People always seemed to need reasons for everything.

And unfortunately "fate", according to her mother, was now very much in style in the social circles.

But this intrusion, Will considered being not from fate, but from the devil himself.

* * *

"Will, I need to talk to you!" Irma's voice was transparent in the once noiseless room.

From her spot on the bed, Will stared through the wiry ends of her bangs at her sister, who was comically, the wrong way up. "I'm sleeping." She replied.

"No you're not," Irma replied and sauntered loudly into the room.

"Look Irma, if you've come to remind me why God only made one Cornelia, then don't bother – I'm already well aware."

Irma stilled. "I'm sorry about before…it's just that…" her voice trailed away, and she briefly considered telling Will everything, about Steven, about Martin…it would be pleasant to have someone to talk to… well someone other than a confidant more than a thousand miles away…but Will was so…_Will_, she would probably just scorn her problems…it was that thought that made her change her mind, this entire thing would go off better if Will was to remain in the dark.

"That what?" her sister asked.

"That Cornelia's fiancé is so utterly dazzling!" she squealed, readily initiating the first stage of her plan. "I can't live knowing that he is in her clutches!"

"Well, then you had might as well go throw yourself off the roof right away – they are a match made in conceited heaven." Will dismissed her sister's teenaged ramblings as accustomed.

"No, I can tell that he isn't like that," she pondered, "That is why I have concocted a plan to save him!"

"_Save_ him?" Will forced her body into a vertical position. "You make it sound as though he's about to be sent into the lion's den."

"Will," Irma pressed, "its Cornelia, there is no deliverance from her."

Will sighed, "So then what so you suggest that you do to save him from the ultimate evil?"

"We force them to cancel their engagement!" Irma was practically bouncing up and down on her toes. "And notice the word _we_ in my sentence."

"Are you so jealous that you would go against your mother and your sister just so that that sadistic demon wouldn't get what he deserves?" Will narrowed her eyes at the memory of him, glad that at least that this time her chest didn't close up.

"I don't see why you don't like him, or why you say that you don't, because I saw the way that you were sneaking looks at him during dinner!"

"I was not – any _look_ that I spared him was out of concern for my own protection, I promise you!" Will yelled before sputtering on, desperately willing away the now prominent blush that was staining her cheeks. "And you obviously don't see a lot of things…that's why we're here still having this discussion."

"What do you mean?" Irma's contrived euphoria died down; which was all too sad as well, since she had even begun to convince herself of her sincerity.

"I mean that this is an _arranged_ marriage…even if you managed to make them hate each other, it wouldn't matter the wedding would still go on." Will prayed that he words would make a dent in Irma's mind, the girl was known already for being far too _promiscuous_, God alone knew what she would do if she decided to go about doing something this rash.

"Well…" Irma racked her brain; somehow, this must be done. "Then we could convince mother to marry him off to one of us – even marriage to _you_ would be better than to her."

"Remember my Cornelia comment?" Will rolled off of the bed to sit on the floor.

"I'm sorry – so will you help me?" she completed the sentence with her most effective puppy dog eyes and pout, to no avail, Will's answer was a resounding no. Well, it had carried another adjective before it, but Irma felt inclined to ignore her sister's offensiveness.

Well, that wouldn't work; she needed for Will to leave – as soon as possible, "_Why not_?" she whined.

"Because your plan is ridiculous, and I won't even take the risk of becoming engaged to that vile excuse for a man!" she raised herself from the wooden floor, and Irma noticed that she had been replacing her shoes.

The soft brunette sighed, she supposed then she would have to tell Will the truth – if there was no other way, she braced herself for the rejection of her actual plan. For the scolding that would predictably follow.

"All right Will –" she began.

"Quickly, Jeffery there's a far better vantage point in here!" In a rare sight of blurred pastels Susanna ran into the room with her butler close behind her.

She pulled to an abrupt halt before Will's bedroom window and craned her long neck outside.

"_What_ are you doing?" Will had to withhold a laugh; it was really a bizarre sight, she doubted that her mother had run since she had been in pig tails.

The woman ignored her, instead calling for Jeffery. "Go fetch my opera glasses – I can just barely make out the two of them near the rose bushes!"

Jeffery's obedience was immediate, in his rush to comply, he nearly bowled Irma over. "Is this about the gypsies again?" Will asked, knowing that the answer was probably far more ludicrous than the question.

"Oh yes Mother – have they given chase?" Irma put in.

"Or perhaps they have joined forces with the wolves!" Will grabbed Irma's arm in counterfeit terror.

"God save us all – and the King as well!" Irma threw her arm across her face in a manner that she felt would best convey her panic.

"Would you two be quiet?" Susanna shushed the girls. "This is no laughing matter – your sister's future depends on this!"

"_Cornelia_?" Irma suddenly became very serious and Will frowned heavily.

"No, your other sister!" Susanna was now in a very obvious threat of falling head first from the building.

"_Other sister?_" Irma's mouth fell open. "I knew it – I knew that _you_ of all people couldn't have had all legitimate children – is she Jeffery's?"

"Sarcasm is lost on you isn't it?" Susanna withdrew her body so that she could lecture her children. "Cornelia is currently on a very romantic _promenade_ with Caleb – it's very exciting."

"Cornelia – promenading…_outside_?" This information was far too much for Irma to take in at once, she collapsed onto the floor.

"Oh, enough of the dramatics!" her mother scolded. "Where is Jeffery?"

"Who's Caleb?" Will questioned. "Has Mister Olsen gone home?" Even if she had been trying to, the hope intertwined with her words could not be hidden.

"Caleb _is_ Mister Olsen my dear – isn't that a _rugged_ name, so mannish and harsh!" she clasped her long hands above her heart; "It's almost as good as Bernard, now Bernard is a wonderfully masculine name…" she trailed off in a daydream.

"I prefer a more exotic name, like _Pierre_!" Irma was apparently recovered from her astonishment on her spot sprawled across the hardwood floor.

Will's eyes moved from sister to mother before freezing midway. "What?"

"Here are the spectacles my lady!" Jeffery returned to the room waving a bottle of Brandy in one arm and the glasses in the other, he bowed ceremoniously before Susanna's feet, a result of the Brandy no doubt.

Will watched as her mother snatched the eye piece and darted back to her spot draped outside the window. "This damned tree – it's still in my way!"

The truth finally registered within Will's mind, she had been right, it was far more preposterous than she could have ever imagined. "You're _spying _on them?"

"_Spying!_" sounded her mother's affronted voice, "Of course not Will, spying is for those cannibalistic Spaniards, whereas I am merely ensuring my daughter's happiness!"

"Well could you ensure her happiness elsewhere, I'm trying to sleep."

"No, you're not!" the older woman scolded. "Oh look there they are, good girl Cornelia keep your arm around his!"

Irma had a sudden interest in this conversation, she had always been an easy target for anything passionate, even this staged, almost forced courtship. "But mother aren't you too old to be _ensuring your daughter's happiness?_" she wandered over to the large window, hoping to sneak a peek.

"_Old?_" It was hard to determine who sounded more insulted, Jeffery or Susanna.

"Yes mother, how long are you going to pretend that you're still seven and thirty?" Will followed Irma over to the window, for she too had been overcome with interest, what exactly _were_ they doing outside?

"Goodness, Will where on earth did they teach you Arithmetic?" Irma wildly shook her head, "Mother is at least forty."

"Forty!" Susanna gasped, her mouth swung open. "Is this what I sent you to school for?"

"I've finished school!" Irma stated, and puffed up her chest as a mark of pride.

"You mean that school near finished me…by the time I had completed paying the tuition I was certain that they would have to name a library in my honor!"

Will shook her head. "Is there a reason that you are all still in my bedroom – _I_ can't see anything!"

Susanna huffed, "I am not _pretending_ that I'm seven and thirty, I am!"

"Oh look!" Jeffery squeaked from the corner from where he had jammed his head out of the gap. Six pairs of eyes followed his finger to spot the elusive couple, partially concealed by bushes and branches, but they were apparently arguing about something.

"This isn't going well…" Irma muttered.

"Lover's spat," her mother give no notice to the angry voices.

She couldn't dismiss it for much longer however, for at that moment Cornelia emitted a scream and struck her fiancé against his head with her parasol.

Irma winced at the contact; whereas Susanna and Jeffery gasped in observable dismay, Will however yelled to her sister, "Hit him again!"

It was very ill-fated that the pair should hear, for then both of them turned to face the source of the noise. It was now Susanna's turn to screech, which she did, in the process throwing back her body, colliding with Jeffery, who in turned caused a domino effect which caused Will and Irma to be sent flying backwards in a flurry of skirts and arms.

The four of them kicked and yelled upon the floor, in four separate attempts to stand up. Later Jeffery would compare it to a war zone, and indeed Susanna did sustain two sharp jabs to her side inflicted by Irma's foot.

"Will – remove your hand from my posterior!" the oldest woman shrieked after a good five minutes of flailing about.

"It's not my hand." replied the muffled voice from across the room.

Somewhere Jeffery was heard to giggle. A punch followed and Susanna forced herself effectively to her feet.

"This is your fault entirely!" she breathed, pointing a trembling finger at her oldest daughter.

"_My fault!_" Will looked up in outrage, she would have liked to stand, in order to give herself more of an advantage in the situation, but with Irma currently thrashing across her chest, that was incredibly difficult to do. And upon seeing her mother's hair scattered about her reddened face and her nostrils flared as though she were some type of race horse, Will figured she was probably safer appearing to be submissive.

"Yes, if you hadn't ruined dinner with your immoral comments, then Cornelia would have never been inspired to create an argument!" her voice seemed to fluctuate unnecessarily.

"You seem fairly confident about that fact seeing as you don't know what happened!" Will responded.

"I know enough!" she hissed, almost foaming at the mouth.

From downstairs Cornelia's voice traveled past the stairway into Will's bedroom. "Mother!" she screamed.

"You will go to apologize to Caleb and to your sister – do I make myself clear!"

"No!" Will used Irma's head as leverage to stand. "I won't…God, you're so unreasonable – you're ruining everything!" she remembered her plan of eternal isolation.

Susanna faced Will, "This is not up for discussion, I am sick of your attitude, and as long as you live here you will do what I say!"

Will moved her face, so that she wouldn't have to look at the hysterical woman salivating before her. "Mother!" Cornelia repeated herself, louder this time if that were possible.

"I'm coming darling!" and with a limping Jeffery trailing behind her she exited the room.

* * *

"Someday Irma, she will find herself in a situation that she can't blame me for." Will threw herself atop of her bed.

"I doubt that." Irma crawled to the foot of her sister's four poster, finding herself mildly out of breath. "So, are you going to apologize?"

"Of course not!"

Irma really couldn't consider herself surprised. "Why not?"

"Because I still have pride, and I would therefore rather be eaten by maggots than initiate a conversation with either of them, and let's not forget that this _wasn't_ my fault." She covered her face with one of her pillows.

"Well, Will _you were_ very rude," for once in her life Irma planned the words that would depart her mouth, she wasn't completely dense, and she had noticed what an opportunity this situation could offer if executed correctly. "And I think that you should go."

"I think that there is a word for people like you – oh yes, _traitor_!"

"_No_, I am just concerned about your temper Will…I think that apologizing would be a wonderful first step in managing it."

"You're not serious…and what about _your_ temper – weren't you the one who was just harping on about how handsome Mister Olsen was, and how much you wanted him –" Will sat up to hover above her sister.

"It's different for me…" Irma trailed off. "I'm younger than you are."

"For God's sake, I'm leaving!" Will jumped off the bed and made a few short strides towards her bedroom window. With a practiced form of inelegance she climbed onto one of the branches…and fell down.

"Are you all right?" Irma called, feeling far too exhausted to see if her sister had survived the fall.

"Shut up!"Will hollered, she seemed unharmed.

_Now_, thought Irma, rubbing her hands together (an action that she had copied from the villain in _Avril's Betrayal_, one of her favored romance novels), she could well begin the second phase of her plan, she had, after all a letter to write.

* * *

Cornelia paced frantically across the parlor. Her amazingly pale skin seemed blotched, decorated with growing pink defilements. She moved as though in a trance, back and forth, until the only thing that she could concentrate on was the pounding of her heavy feet.

When she paused, she could feel the eyes of her mother and Jeffery, (both looking similarly harassed – undoubtedly from their previous spying) on her back…_perfect_. She sighed again, and continued walking; now wringing her gloved hands in front of her, more as a means of dramatic suspense than of actual panic.

Finally, when she decided that she could pace no more, she flung herself in a nearby chaise and sighed, it was a motion that she had copied from Irma, although, she felt that she did it far more justice.

"It was horrible." She croaked at last, using a tone of perfect wounded pride.

"What happened darling?" Susanna hustled over to her daughter's side, placing both her hands atop of the blonde's fair head; her face carried an expression of absolute unease.

"Well…we talked…for the most part," she rolled her eyes within her head as though the memory caused her a great pain, "But then his driver…from the carriage, the men brought him towards the house, and he wanted to cancel our walk – after everything that I had sacrificed to do it!"

"So…you smacked him because he wanted to check on his driver…" Susanna spoke very slowly, as though the words would make more sense that way. They didn't.

"Yes!" Cornelia looked at her mother with her eyes that seemed far too great for her angular face. 'And then he called me – _selfish._"

Susanna paused for a second, as though she were briefly considering what she should do. Then, in a surprise move, she smacked Cornelia across her face with a cushion.

"What!" Cornelia shrieked.

"You're _what_!" Susanna fumed. "I swear that you children will run my blood to water – apparently you've all started mimicking Will!"

"But he insulted me and –" Cornelia floundered, still reeling from the shock of being whacked.

"Didn't you listen to anything that I told you!" she ran her hands through her midnight colored hair. "_Pretend_, Cornelia, I know that you don't care about the driver – but he mustn't!"

"I'm…sorry?" Cornelia faltered; this wasn't the reaction that she had anticipated.

"Well you should be…you obviously don't understand the importance of this marriage…don't you dare do anything to ruin it again!" she released her hold on her daughter and took her place pacing.

"What should I do now?" Cornelia straightened herself in the seat. "Apologize?"

"No…not now…you should wait until tomorrow – we don't want to come across as desperate." She chewed thoughtfully on her finger.

"Are we desperate?" Cornelia questioned, she could understand this concern when associated with Will or even Irma, but surely, _she_ would receive other proposals.

"No…" her mother responded after a long pause. "Just…impatient."

* * *

He imagined that he should be grateful that parasols weren't harder. Or at least that Cornelia's aim hadn't been better. He expected that she had been trying for his head, but she had had to be satisfied with his arm.

Instead however, he was feeling grateful that he had gotten away.

Apparently the blonde wasn't the porcelain doll that he had first suspected. She was, after a lengthy fifteen minutes interrogation revealed as being a spoilt, selfish brat – much like all the other females her age.

Well, at least she had her good looks to fall back on – for he doubted that any man would deal with her on personality alone.

In the dim light provided by the lantern, he strained his eyes to make out the bandaged features of his driver. The source of the argument.

It was asinine really, that they should fight over him checking to see if a man were still alive rather than spend more time with her discussing – what was it – _fishing_. He supposed that he should apologize, for the sake of his mission. Spoilt or not, this girl was an integral part of his investigation, and it would be stupid to allow his pride to jeopardize this assignment.

He ran a hand through his tousled brown hair; undoing a few knots in the process…he should probably take better care of himself, if he were expected to pass for some form of educated society member.

Beneath him, the driver stirred, he appeared to be asleep. That was good, tomorrow he could be moved to a hospital, but first he needed to regain his strength, and according to the frail young woman who lingered at the man's side, they needed for the fever to go down as well.

"Oh, I just wish that Steven hadn't taken the other carriage," she muttered to herself, and was actually very startled when Caleb joined the conversation.

"What about the first one…" he asked.

"Oh…" she blushed at the feeling of his green eyes on her, and lowered her gaze. "I-I believe that there is something wrong with one of the wheels…Jeffery pushed it rather hard – you see we were all under the impression that there were gypsies on the property."

Caleb couldn't escape the feeling that this was somehow his fault, the man lying on the floor groaned as the woman applied a soaked cloth to his forehead, and worked to fix those on his exposed feet.

"You were lucky," she said softly, "I mean, in the accident."

"Yes…" he mused, "My mother always said that I had the luck of the devil." He clenched his jaw – he was being careless now, he needed to control his words, his actions, or else he would be in trouble. "He'll be all right in here?" he returned to himself to the mindset of his character.

"Yes, I'll stay with him, or at least get my husband to…" she sighed, exhausted. "As long as the fever breaks…he'll be right as rain."

He nodded. "It's probably the heat."

"Well, when it's hot like this that usually means that the rain will come soon." She reddened at her words. "I'll go get some more water," she indicated the empty bowl. "You can stay here with him until I return…if it isn't any trouble…I mean…"

"No, no trouble." He offered her a weak smile, which she missed completely on her dash to the heavy barn door.

* * *

The weighty thud that signaled the door's closure and her departure was the last thing to be heard before an awkward silence overcame the room.

Now alone, Caleb felt...uncomfortable.

The smell of sickness…the perfume of agony, it lingered heavily over the make shift stable. It was like a heavy fog, stagnant, pungent and soon it felt as though it was clogging every one of his pores.

It reminded him, vividly in fact, of his mother. A memory that made his skin crawl.

The mare in the stall facing him stared with large, watery eyes. She tilted her long neck giving off an impression of superiority, for she apparently was unconcerned about the odor of illness. She bared her teeth after noticing his staring; mocking him, Caleb suspected.

He decided then that he hated horses.

* * *

Somewhere in the distance behind him the door thundered open. He turned, an air of gratitude replacing the nausea – for a moment.

The red hair was unmistakable – the scowl impending.

What was she doing here?

It seemed that she had the same question relating to him, except she voiced her concern.

Caleb frowned rather than answering, and returned his attention to the man at his feet. Yet, as much as he tried, he couldn't erase the sharp awareness he had developed concerning her presence.

He could feel her eyes on him for a moment, and then he heard her voice, muttering something incoherent. He released a pent up breath when the door acknowledged her touch, and his distraction prepared to leave.

The evening paused; nearby, the accursed horsed laughed as the last jagged rays of daylight bombarded the barn. Ignoring his determination to remain indifferent, he turned, only to come into an uncomfortably close proximity to the top of her crimson head.

Her scent, a strong whiff of spices, seemed to conquer the more dominant attar of infection, if only for a second. The fingers of her cologne wrapped around his neck, sending his senses reeling…right now, all he knew was her, the subtle whisper of breath that ruffled his shirt – the furrow of her brow as she stared at the ailing driver, the snippets of freckled skin that led his eyes to the alluring curve of lace that initiated her dress.

Vaguely he could remember her, or at least someone who resembled her, screaming insults at him from the depths of a pond. She was nothing like her formal sibling…

"Why is he here?" the words tumbled out of her mouth with the same irreverent tone that everything seemed to carry.

"What?" It took more than a moment for him to realize that the wistful fantasy had ended, eye-catching or not, she was still a pain in the ass.

"In a barn…" she drifted away from him, taking the damned aroma with her, "Shouldn't he be in a hospital…shouldn't a doctor be here with him?" Her voice was dry, accusing.

"You're right," he began, feeling his patience ebbing, "I would have _never _thought of that."

"Don't yell at me!" she snapped, folding her arms across her chest.

"I'm not yelling, just stating a fact, _Wilhelmina_."

She paused, evidently surprised. "How dare you call me that –!"

"It's your name isn't it?"

"That doesn't give _you _of all people the right to call me by _that_…"

"I can see this conversation will get us nowhere, so if you will just kindly excuse yourself from my company…I think that we would both benefit." He averted his eyes from her scowling face.

"_Men!_" she huffed, and stormed past, as she moved by him, the same smell tempted his sanity once again, and for a fleeting moment, he actually considered grabbing her arm…pulling her closer…

She was gone.

It was probably for the best.

This situation was fast becoming revolting…why was he behaving like this? The only answer his frenetic mind could provide was that he had most likely gone far too long without the company of a woman. He had never considered that as being a dilemma until now.

But obviously if he were actually entertaining thoughts of obstinate little red heads then it was.

At his feet the man shuffled and moaned.

The sunlight vanished.

* * *

The moon hovered solemnly in the velvet night sky. It was a lonesome, reproachful looking figure as it gazed, condescendingly onto the world below. It was truly no wonder _why_ the stars stayed away.

Already anticipation whispered beguilingly against his flesh. And as he neared her crumpled form the sensation only grew stronger, more overwhelming until it threatened to cut off his air supply.

In fact, when the first shattered rays of the full moon slid across her tousled golden curls and then danced across the space to caress his knife's blade – he felt ready to burst.

The images tormenting his already shattered mind, the sounds that hindered him from ever escaping his past…they were still there, now joining with the anticipation in a skilful assault of his being. But soon, soon, he knew they would be gone – the girl before him whimpered, obviously she too had noticed the knife, her large radiant aqua eyes shimmered beneath the lake of tears that he himself had caused.

He almost pitied her…almost. He had long detached his mind from such inadequate feelings such as compassion. There was a greater good to be accomplished with her death Phobos reminded himself, even if he was to be the only who would benefit.

Perfection would be his nevertheless.

He trembled as she sobbed…as she begged for his mercy. A shot of arousal gripped his body at the noise, at the realization that he had no mercy to give. He groaned and dismissed such thoughts to the back of his already exhausted mind, into nothingness.

"Please." Again, it was only a whisper. But it was one that he had heard countless times before, and one that he would undoubtedly hear again.

He stilled then, the sea of blonde that was his hair rushed forward to cover his face. Those visions were back again…those thoughts of her, singing, dancing – dying. Around him, silence overcame the room, while outside the wind whistled, the clouds danced and the moon watched.

As soon as the visions had come, they departed, leaving Phobos, at least momentarily displaced. He whispered a prayer to himself, praying to the same unhearing God that had taken her from him, asking him for sanity.

He proceeded to walk again, concentrating on the dull sounds of his shoes against the wooden floor; it took his mind off of her at least. Soon, he repeated, forcing himself to swallow the moisture that had accumulated in his mouth. Soon.

The girl had started screaming now, the hysterical echoes of her voice only succeeded in stirring a few of the night birds in the forests behind the old house. There was no one to hear her…well there was one person, but still he would never help her.

Her eyes stared into his probing them, looking for some hint of humanity but it was useless, she could already tell, there was nothing there.

Phobos made no motion to silence her, in fact, he rather relished in her weeping. The noise reminded him of the crimson salvation that would soon be pouring from her veins, gleaming along her porcelain skin as he slashed through the paper thin flesh.

He wanted to smile at her – pretty girl, long curly golden hair – to tell her that it would be all right – blue eyes, so blue, like a perfect summer's sky – to whisper to her that death didn't hurt – rosy cheeks, perfectly pink tinged skin – that it would all be over soon.

Soon.

She screamed again, although softer this time, seeing as her voice had become hoarse from her previous activities. He tightened his fingers about the handle of the blade and stopped, hovering above her. He smiled, it was the least that he could do.

It didn't calm her; instead she increased her thrashing, tugging at the ropes that bound her to the wall of the cabin, crying when she realized that it was over.

"I'm sorry," he muttered to her, bending to run an elegant hand along her cherubic face. The blade caught his reflection and hers by what little light sacrificed by the moon. It was the last thing that she saw before the metal was thrust into her side.

* * *

**Author:** My apologies of course for not updating this week as I had promised. It's just that school has been riding me like a disease. Long story short, I had five tests, three essays and two Physics experiments to do in four days, and then my internet stopped working. Yes, I'm still reeling. But I swear to make it up to you, Spring Break after all. So expect more soon.

I don't know exactly how good this chapter is, I felt a little intimidated when writing it, and I wasn't really inspired, so maybe it comes across as forced…I'll apologize for that as well.

I actually wrote a lot, about 7000 words, wow, I have entire stories this long. But I refused to go another chapter still rambling on about the same day.

It's weird to me that you are comparing this to a romance novel, since I've only ever read two of them in my lifetime – I'm more of a manga/sub-titles gal myself.

I decided not to raise the rating as yet. I'm enjoying my T rating far too much. And besides there's not anything that's too disturbing here…I'll have to raise the rating eventually anyway. Hint – hint.

So are you confused? I know, don't worry; I'll tie everything together eventually. So that means that there will more on Phobos later and yes that was Dublin's daughter that he stabbed.

I'm trying to give my character's a bit of depth, I know Irma comes off as…weird, but it's all for a reason, Susan too.

Subplots are fun aren't they? I don't know why I haven't used them before. For those of you worried, Will will soon begin to behave more Will-like, so will Irma, and for Cornelia, as far a WxC fics go she is perfect. I'm just working out a few of the kinks here, so no complaining, you're in good hands, for once I actually know what I'm doing.

Review thank you - please!

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

Chapter Five

* * *

In the novels that she had read while growing up…or at least, in the stories that her Governess had recited to her on dark, stormy nights when she had lain tucked, safely within her bed…the nighttime had always carried noises; an unharmonious lullaby of crickets and howling winds, which had never once ceased to inspire adventure and mischief. 

But now, some ten or so years later, spread out across her rumpled bed sheets (which had only recently been kicked away from her feet), Will discovered that the reality of the dusk was very much different from that discussed in the printed word.

_Silence._

Oh _precious_ silence, she would have traded anything for it in the daytime, but it only tormented her in the night, for it did nothing to cure her insomnia. There were no crickets to lull her to sleep, no whispers of the wind to calm her confused mind. Nothing, but the most unwelcome sounds of Irma's snoring taunting her from across the hall.

'_Sleep Wilhelmina,' _a voice whispered through the clutter of memories and thoughts, _'Morning will come so much faster if you just close your eyes…'_

She didn't obey the orders of her conscience…mostly because she didn't honestly want for the morning to arrive. The dawn meant more seemingly unavoidable encounters with that accursed Olsen character, she huffed; forcing herself to forget that this had to have been the tenth time she had uttered that statement in the last half hour.

And closing her eyes meant subjecting herself to the same experience; because as she had discovered hours ago, the bastard had infiltrated her dreams as well. She groaned in frustration, loudly as well, although that was in the hope that she would awaken someone else in this house, so that perhaps they could share in her suffering.

There was no such luck however; in fact the only response she had evoked was a particularly loud snort from Irma. She turned onto her side, staring at the full moon that hung serenely in the black sky, the subtle glow that decorated the shattered edges… the lullaby had started…_finally_ she could hear it. Gradually, her breathing slowed, and her eye lids yielded to the weight of the tiredness that hung over them.

And there _he_ was again…the emerald eyes shone from within the shadows that cloaked the rest of his face. She could feel her mouth go dry, her eyes closed. But still she knew that he was nearing her for his presence was overwhelming.

The breath trapped in her chest caused her heart to tremble. She whimpered, although she didn't quite know why. From within her safety net of darkness she felt him touch her arm; it was a soft sensation, but she felt it – it stole every ounce of her sanity from her. Immediately her eyes flew open, just in time to witness his mouth making the swift descent onto her own lips.

She was drowning in him by the time his lips chastely pressed against hers, it was brief; just a taste almost…

And then reality came streaming past the shadows, dissolving the fantasy in a steady stream of lights and sounds. When she awoke, she was gasping for air, listening to the horrible grandfather clock as it dutifully chimed three. _Damn_.

Her face felt hot…so did she…it had to be because of the summer heat. _Had _to be.

The dreams were getting worse apparently…Oh God, she had known him for less than a day and already he was ruining her life!

Disgruntled, she managed to crawl from her bed. She had already exhausted the water supply at her bedside. Well, at least now she had a reason to leave the room, God even _that_ with its flowered walls and furniturereminded her of him.

And what did those dreams mean anyway – she erased the question from her mind, calling herself stupid in the process, she didn't want to know. Ignorance was bliss wasn't it?

* * *

The journey to the kitchen was an eventful one. She had been half way to her destination before she had heard it. _Moaning_…from her mother's room. 

Will scrunched up her face in disgust; she had long known her mother to…_entertain_ her male guests long into the night. The information had come by her through Irma, who had apparently witnessed Jeffery sobbing about that fact over twelve empty bottles of champagne.

Best to leave her alone, Will decided, the chances were that she really didn't want to see whatever was transpiring behind those doors anyway. But her mother's scream stopped her descent along the stairs.

_What was she doing?_ She felt a finger of apprehension trail along her spine. Cautiously, and against her better judgment, Will turned around, and headed towards Susanna's bedroom.

"M-mother?" she stammered, knocking against the heavy chamber door. "Are you all right?" Strands of her cherry red hair fell before her eyes, she brushed them away.

"Will?" the muffled reply sounded, "Come in."

Holding her breath, expecting the worst, bracing for the worst; Will turned the brass door knob.

Her mother lay atop her bed, surrounded by rumpled sheets and doused in sweat. Her raven hair was lank about her face, causing her already pale skin to look almost transparent.

"I'm sick," she responded to Will's staring.

The heavy ceramic jug fell from her daughter's fingers as she ran over to her mother's side. "What's wrong?" Will had never seen her mother sick, and seeing her like this now scared her more than she would care to admit.

Susanna looked at her daughter's worried expression with dull violet eyes – lifeless, almost like a dead fish. "Fish," she murmured.

"_Fish?_" Will questioned, her hand darted forward to rest atop the woman's forehead. "You don't have a fever…"

"It was that damned cook…tried to do me in…bastard!" she managed to complete her condemnation of the cook even though it was punctuated with gasps for air whenever the pain had ripped through her frame.

"He poisoned you?" Will managed to piece together an acceptable truth from the fragments of embellishments and obvious hysteria. "With _fish_?"

"Chicken!" she winced and her eyes rolled into the back of her sunken head.

Why was she even trying? Will held the woman's clenching hand, "Mother – do you want me to send for a doctor?"

"Don't…" she whispered; her breath smelt of the brandy that she had obviously taken to quell her anguish. "Bleed me…"

"They won't bleed you…" Will pulled away, mind set, "I'll get Steven…"

"No!" Her hand pulled Will closer, almost forcing their faces to collide. "Get Cornelia…"

'_Of course, Cornelia,'_ Will nodded, feeling slightly put out…even as her mother collapsed, gasping into her mattress.

"And Will," she called as Will turned to leave.

"Yes?"

"Pick up the jug – one of you might trip…" her sentence dissolved into another scream.

* * *

Cornelia's room was even more flowery than her own. Luckily in the dark, she couldn't make out those all too disturbing images of cherubs and angels. 

"Cornelia," it took Will a second to realize that she was whispering. She repeated herself, although louder this time. Cornelia stirred in her slumber…she was a pretty sleeper, Will thought to herself. She didn't snore like Irma – or drool like Will admittedly did.

And _why_ was _she _sleeping anyway – why weren't her dreams being disrupted with thoughts of green eyed strangers.

"Cornelia!" Will shook her sister…causing her to tumble off of her four poster. Well, at least she was awake now.

"Will!" Cornelia arose like a woman possessed, the braid that confined her long, golden mane had begun to untangle. "What is wrong with you?"

"Mother is sick," Will had regained her trademark apathetic disposition, "She wants you to come to her room."

"What…do you mean she's sick?" Cornelia struggled to her feet, only so she could put the three inches that she held over Will to good use. "Mother has never been sick – she's as strong as a horse…"

"Well, there is a first time for everything." Will shrugged it off.

Cornelia's face fell for a moment some form of susceptibility showed, "Well, then what does she want me for…"

"Heaven knows…" Will grabbed Cornelia by the arm, nearly dragging the younger girl out of the bedroom. "Just try to convince her to call for a doctor…maybe she will listen to you."

"But Will!" Her voice was a full fledged whine now.

"I'm going to call Irma." With a look of utter dismay Cornelia watched, helplessly as her sister stormed off into the darkness.

"Cornelia?" the voice made the blonde jump.

"Yes…" she replied.

"Come inside darling – I need you." Cornelia sighed; her heart had already begun to race. "I'm…coming" she replied, and entered the room.

* * *

Irma slept just like she behaved – loudly. Even her room seemed to echo her thunderous behavior…it was filthy. 

Across the floor were countless pairs of shoes and petticoats, and it became obvious what had happened to the hats that usually decorated their foyer. Ink, overturned on her desk, led to inky fingerprints that dotted a white envelope that had been seemingly place with infinite care upon a stack of romance novels.

Will wasted no time, instead just rolling her sister out of bed. She too awoke enraged, "Will!" she screeched.

"Your mother is sick," Will stated, crossing her arms across her chest to highlight the significance.

"Mother never gets sick…is it a romantic virus…like tuberculosis?"

"What on earth is romantic about tuberculosis?"

"It's better than the measles…" Irma spat, as though an insult to the disease that took Will's hair was an insult to the girl as well.

"Just get – dressed!" Her sister's nakedness had suddenly dawned upon her. "Why are you naked?" Will shielded her eyes, feeling far more embarrassed for Irma than for herself.

"The French sleep in the nude…they say that it inspires artistic freedom." Irma scowled.

"The French bathe about twice and year and comb their hair even less often than that – and here you are taking advice from them…"

"Such a _misanthropist_ Will," Irma, nevertheless began to search the ground for some clothes.

"What if a man had walked in on you in this state?" she felt it necessary to scold her sister.

"What _man_…do you mean Mister Olsen?" she clasped her hands across her chest, "Well, then perhaps that wouldn't have been so terrible." She giggled.

Irma seemed ignorant of the flush that swept across Will's features at the mention of Cornelia's fiancé; either that or she attributed the sudden lack of color to Will's disgust at seeing her in such a…inspiring state.

"Get dressed!" Will commanded before heading back to her mother's room, feeling even sicker than their mother looked.

* * *

Irma arrived much later, dressed as she imagined one should when meeting someone who was afflicted with such a fantastic disease…unless it was catching. She paused to ponder this new idea, but decided to discard her concern…Will was already there and Cornelia as well, why should she be excluded? 

She pushed open the door, already ajar.

"Come closer child," Susanna turned her head slightly, finding only enough strength to beckon Irma closer with her fingers. "My youngest…" she whispered, before her voice faded entirely, her dark eyes seemed watery, suddenly old. The violet irises glittered from beneath a lake of unshed tears.

Irma tossed a glance to where her sisters stood. Her gaze wordlessly dared them to verbally challenge the sight of their mother encased within the white linens. Neither of them did.

It seemed as though they wouldn't – or at least that they couldn't; Cornelia's face was hidden by an uncombed mass of flaxen locks, (which of course was easily the first sign of the gravity of the situation) but she sat perfectly erect at the foot of her mother's bed, silently sewing, her mouth pinched in a tight white line.

Will had actually turned away from them; choosing instead to face the view outside the bedroom window, her head pressed against the cold window pane. She seemed to be lost in thought, dreaming almost of the night as it ended before her, but Irma knew better than that, the tapping of her foot against the carpet proved to her that her older sister was very much aware of all that was transpiring behind her.

"Irma, when I am gone…" Susanna whispered, as her eyes rolled dangerously into the back of her head, "Pledge to me that you won't be such a flirt – and remember your waistline, promise me that you won't let it surpass twenty inches when corseted." Her eyes shuddered close.

The fact that these would be her mother's last words didn't actually surprise Irma. Her mother had a talent for squeezing all of the drama from every conceivable situation, even dying it seemed.

"Oh for pity's sake mother just call for a doctor!" Will's voice broke through the layers of sobriety that had once encased the room. "You are not dying!"

"I am so!" their mother challenged, "I think that I am old enough to know when death is at my door – and I've told you that I shan't call for any doctor, it was those doctors who sent my Thomas to an early grave!"

Will uttered something in response, it was unintelligible, but they all knew from experience that it was some rude remark about their mother's tenacity. A trait, that ironically Will had inherited fully.

"And if you dare tell me if I shall or shall not survive again Wilhelmina, I swear that I will return to haunt you when I am gone!"

Will returned to her post facing the window, this time the rhythm of her foot had ceased, and Irma knew that this time she really was envisioning herself somewhere else.

"Cornelia my dear," The blonde looked up from her needlework, she looked even more pallid than Susanna, and even as her mother reached for her, Cornelia backed away, shivering. "It is up to you to take care of your sisters…teach them propriety for they obviously don't know it, and you have learnt so well, and be a good wife to your husband – but be sure to marry at least twice…once for money, and then for love…"

At that time Jeffery darted into the room. He was obviously just out of bed, for he was still clad in his loathsome oriental print pajamas…red ones with matching slippers.

"Oh lord…" Will interjected to summarize his entrance.

"Why didn't you summon me Miss – I had to hear of your ailments from the cook, I had never felt so common in my life, having to hear information from that _ape_!" Jeffery sprang to his employer's side, burying his face in her covers, almost as a dog would; and without a word of apology; for in his haste he had pushed Irma into a nearby wardrobe.

"I told Wilhelmina to call for you – but she never listens!" Even in death Susanna sounded fierce. Will prepared to counter.

"No you didn't…in any case forgive me for wanting to spare myself the sight of the both of you!" she replied.

"Will – behave!" Cornelia rose to her unsteady feet (in her present quivering state, a very dangerous action), "Mother is…do you really have so little respect for her that you would have her last memories of you as being a bad-mannered, stubborn ninny?"

Will rolled her eyes without looking at her sister. "Mother has enough memories of me to keep her company in the afterlife."

"There is a place in hell for people like you!" Cornelia condemned, her tone sounded just as a threat should, condescending, twisted almost, as though she were to be spared from eternal damnation because she was the one who had uttered these words.

"I'm certain that if mother should choose to entertain all of the heavenly party with tales of my impertinence that I am doomed – oh woe is me." She placed a hand against her heart for an exaggerated finish.

The entire circumstance seemed all too surreal.

"Jeffery!" Susanna called suddenly, "I have only just realized that God must be telling me that I need to stay alive – for my children's sakes…they obviously cannot survive without me!"

"It's true Miss…and I cannot…" he was never able to finish his declaration of ardor, for the very object of his affection cut him off.

"Run downstairs to the library…at least I think that this where the library is – and find my black book…"

A chill descended upon the room.

"Your _what_?" Irma murmured.

"Don't you concern yourselves with that...it doesn't…" Susanna waved aside any concern with a flick of her wrist.

"Well, mother it appears that you will be joining me in endless damnation –" Will looked at Susanna, who was now sitting up, her tears replaced with a glint of excitement, and a healthy redness spreading across her face...well, at least she had stopped screaming.

"Voodoo!" Cornelia was visibly appalled. "I can't believe this – the next time that I attend church I shall have to ask the priest to pray for you instead of Will and Irma!"

"You do what?" Irma had just felt the full the full impact of her sister's words.

"Nonsense…it's just a book." She turned to Jeffery, "Go get it for me will you Jeffery."

With a curt nod he was off, his footsteps hammering against the floorboards as he ran.

"Well don't you all look at me like _that_!" Susanna lowered herself into the sanctuary of her covers. "It's only for a recipe – had that blasted cook not tried to murder me I would still be perfectly holy!"

No one bothered to mention to her that it was she and not the "attempted murder" who had demanded that the dinner be served – cooked or not and then eaten it.

When no comments of sympathy came, Susanna remained silent, and was incredibly glad when Jeffery returned, sweaty and fatigued as he was, although the euphoria was short-lived. "Madam…" he sputtered, "The book is not there!"

"What!" with surprising vigor for a dying woman Susanna sprang out of bed…only to be overcome by a wave of pain and return to her covers. Cornelia dashed away at the sight of the illness' comeback, moving to the other side of the room with an astonishing haste, where she remained, whimpering.

She hated sickness. In fact, the only reason she had come here was because she knew that it had recently been deemed "proper" for Victorian women to be seen as permanent fixtures at the bedsides of the ailing. Otherwise, she would have been found tucked inside of her bed, a welcome victim of oversleeping.

"Without that book…I shall surely perish!" Susanna wailed, the paleness had returned, and Jeffery had hurled himself at her side as accustomed, whispering soothing verses into the outline of her feet.

Will sighed, "I'll go look again mother…maybe Jeffery just missed it."

"No!" her mother raised a trembling hand to stop her; "It's gone…I can sense it in my heart!"

"Well then call for a doctor…why do you always have to be so sensational?"

"Will don't shout!" Cornelia scolded.

"You're the one who is shouting Princess Cornelia!" Irma responded.

"Well, welcome to the conversation Irma," Cornelia replied, with her long hair covering her ashen face she looked like a lunatic.

The argument was interrupted by Susanna's own strident rendition of "Nearer My God To Thee", to which all three daughters could only stop and stare. "I want this song at my burial…remember that Jeffery."

The butler nodded, a few tears escaping his wrinkled eyes in the process.

"Well, I suppose that it's time for me to create my last will and testament…Will come write for me, everyone else is too distraught at my impending passing to hold a pen steady…" Susanna pointed at her white washed desk in the corner of the room.

Will obeyed, mutely even, for once. The vivid sounds of her mother's screams had yet to leave her memory.

"I, Susanna Vandom Hale…wait no…I the Countess Susanna…oh no, yes now I have it…I, the esteemed Countess Susanna Vandom Hale Lair…" with each addition of a title she embellished her hand, sometimes whacking Jeffery in the head with it for emphasis.

"Being in my sane mind," she continued to dictate, while Will had to bite her tongue to retain the challenge of her last statement from burning her lips.

"Do bequeath…no wait we have to date it don't we…what's today?" she questioned.

"The fourteenth…" Irma stated.

"No, it's the sixteenth," Jeffery defied, "I know that because it's the day that I first made tea for your mother."

No one dared to challenge his accuracy.

"Don't we need a lawyer here?" Irma inquired.

"Oh, my fiancé is a lawyer." Cornelia squealed from her place pressed up against the floral wallpaper. "We should call him!"

Will's stomach clenched at the idea, she suddenly felt all too conscious of her irregular breathing and of her thundering heartbeat. She twisted the pen awkwardly in her ink dotted fingers – for her to see him right now was not a good idea.

"Let's just finish writing it first," she put in, clinging to the idea that she could lock herself in her room before he could arrive.

"Yes, let's do that." Irma finished, with a smile so full of spite that Cornelia felt herself shudder when it was directed towards her.

"Good then, I do bequeath my fortune to my daughters, well what is left after Will's share is taken out – and my properties to Cornelia, and even though your father was a good for nothing rogue Irma, who left this family with nothing but a bad name, to you I leave you all of my personal effects." She nodded sternly, looking as though she were absolutely proud of herself.

"_Land_…" although her satisfaction was obviously not shared; in fact Cornelia almost left the safety of her wall to dispute it. "You're leaving me land…I don't want that!"

"Cornelia darling – your father owned land, it would make sense for you to inherit it…" Susanna spoke with an annoyed manner.

"But I…"

"Then _sell_ it –!" Irma pressed, "Mother when you said that you'd leave me all of your possessions does that include the red feathered hat that you wore last month to the Peterson's picnic?"

"Is this all that you care about…_materials_, I will be dead for God's sake – only Will here doesn't care about such trifles…"

"Well, that's because I'm still in shock, you never told me that I had any money…"

"You are all the most terrible children that have ever been conceived – after I held you within my womb for nine months…and seven months for you Will…I lost my enviable figure in the process and this is what I get in return!" Jeffery patted her back by means of comfort.

Her verbal assault was launched, and she prepared to list every incident of self sacrifice that she could remember.

"Calm your self Madam…" Jeffery warned; his face was the depiction of absolute terror. "Any stress in your current position…"

"Any stress!" Susanna screeched, causing a few freed curls to bounce along her face, "Do you remember that one time when Irma fancied herself a poet, and required a pony in order to find _inspiration_ – do you remember Jeffery, who sent for one from France for her?"

Irma cringed at the memory. "But mother, the pony died on the ship, I never even saw it…"

"It doesn't matter…and _you_!" She pointed at Cornelia, "I found you a husband – for Heaven's sake just look at him that should be enough…" she trembled suddenly, her voice having caught in her throat.

"Mother…" Irma questioned, she could already feel the tears at the backs of her eyes. They blurred the sight of her mother as she clutched her throat, gasping for air.

From where she had been trembling Cornelia sobbed, before falling to a crumpled heap on the floor.

A dry breath escaped Susanna's parted lips…before a large rush of air made its escape from her chest in the form of a very loud, un-lady like belch.

Her hands clamped across her mouth, obscuring the view of her rapidly reddening cheeks. She stayed like that for a moment; they all did actually, until Irma brought the question plaguing her psyche to words.

"Are you dead?"

"No…" Susanna removed her arms to tuck some of her thick raven hair behind her ears. "I suppose that I am cured…it's obviously a miracle, like when our Lord in Heaven raised Lazarus from the tomb…"

Will snorted, "Or perhaps it is that you were never dying…" She would never admit it, but the sight of her mother, now healthy, exaggerating, and giggling was an incredibly calming potion.

"Heathen!" She hissed, preparing to stand, "Well let's all not dwell here – now that the morning's excitement is over, we can all get ready, after all there is a wedding to be planned."

And with that she removed herself from bed, all thoughts of her near fatal encounter with food poisoning presently forgotten. Irma wiped away the fallen tears from her face, and aided Jeffery in helping Susanna into a robe.

Cornelia had already fled the room, overjoyed that the entire ordeal was over.

After awhile it was only Will who remained, listening to the oddly comforting sounds of her mother screaming at the cooks and then the maids. She had never realized just how much the old bat meant to her.

* * *

In the clouded sky above, ominous grey shapes threatened rain to the earth. As Caleb traveled along the tree lined path that would carry him away from that accursed house – or essentially those accursed people who inhabited said house, he felt surprisingly calm. 

He was still tired – restless, actually. He hadn't slept very well last night…probably due to the new surroundings. It was understandably more difficult to fall asleep on a bed when one had been trained to sleep in the backs of carriages and on hard lodge mattresses.

A great deal of his sleeplessness was due to boredom as well, he couldn't stand the country. All those damned sounds in the night – insects and the wind, and not a single human voice. He just prayed that this…_all_ of this would soon be over, and he would return to the life that he had worked so hard to obtain.

In fact he was now (gladly) journeying towards (if only temporarily) the town life that he so desperately longed for. It had actually been a series of awkward events that had led to his so called escape. The first being his agitation which immediately led to his sudden inexplicable desire to roam the premises, which concluded with him standing within the stables and noticing the presence of his still feverish driver.

He had always been far too impulsive; his father had been fond of telling him throughout his childhood. Now that he was an adult; he had been forced to agree. Still, this admittance had truly never persuaded him to try to change this "horrible" character flaw. Instead, he often times relished in it.

After all, it was his impulsiveness that had convinced him to toil upon the broken wheel of the carriage; it was his impulsiveness that had inspired him to force the unconscious driver into the back seat and to take them both very far away.

And that was why he was heading along the bumpy dirt road, a road which of course, he knew precious little about, all he knew was that it was straight as it was long, and would hopefully lead towards town, towards a hospital, or at least a doctor of some sort.

This entire deed would have been far nobler, he suspected, had he not managed to garner such immense pleasure at finally escaping that asylum.

He urged the horses on upon noticing the blurry outline of the town's stone buildings as they rose up from the heavy layer of fog that had swept across the disappearing country side.

Finally he thought, actual company, whose vocabulary and conversations didn't revolve around the fashions of society or whatever the hell it was that those women had been discussing yesterday.

God knows that he hadn't been listening.

* * *

The time had been about nine o'clock, sometime after breakfast, when Will had retired to her bedroom in the expectation of finally getting some sleep. For it seemed that although sleep eluded her in the night, it was a very close acquaintance during the day. 

Although Irma seemed intent on severing their relationship.

"Mister Olsen has run away!" she bounded inside Will's bedroom, looking happier than she had in days.

"Good." Will groaned.

"Cornelia is very distraught…apparently she wanted to have a picnic today," she created a seat at the edge of Will's bed, "Can you imagine in this weather?"

Outside the rain clouds loomed unpromisingly.

"I suppose that is desperation for you…" Irma positioned herself next to Will, ignoring the latter's protests. "God himself doesn't seem to want the two of them to get together."

"No, that's you…" Will had now given up in the hope of ever getting some rest; she left the refuge of her bed, feeling murderous. "I don't see why everyone in this family links every little thing to God."

"Perhaps if you stayed awake long enough in church you might…"

"Perhaps if the priests weren't so intent on boring me to death…" Will moved towards the large window that displayed her family's property.

Irma was silent for a moment. "What are you always looking at?" she asked finally.

Will didn't answer, after a while Irma muttered something and left, figuring that her sister was just ignoring her – again; she retreated for her own room, closing the bedroom door behind her.

But Will had heard her sister's question – and truly it had disturbed her a great deal more that it really should have. Did Irma really have any idea how profound that comment had been?

Probably not, in fact, the entire question probably hadn't been philosophical at all…after all it had come from _Irma's_ mouth – and could she – could any of them understand what it was like to long for so much more than this house?

It was like a damned slave ship, decorated with flowers and fairies – all that was missing were the chains.

But there was nothing out there…nothing but the rolling hills and fields, which sadly also belonged to her mother, so truly there wasn't much freedom held there. When she had been able to leave, it was due to move to society, yet another cage…

"Will!" Cornelia's voice broke the red head's concentration.

"What?" she snapped.

"Have you seen Caleb?" she spoke in a very dignified whine. At her sister's negative response she growled. "Where is he…mother has begun to suspect that he has been kidnapped…"

"Did you check the barn?" Will watched her sister's reaction for the polished glass surface of the window pane.

"Why would we have to check the barn?" Cornelia's reflection scowled, she hated people knowing more than she did, "Will, answer me."

Will sighed and closed her eyes, feeling immensely tired, she had to word this carefully or Cornelia (and Susanna if informed) would attack her. "His driver was unconscious…Gregory put him in the barn, remember – maybe he just carried him to a doctor…"

The blonde beauty stared at Will with a mixture of anger and disbelief, finally she settled for, "And how do you know this?"

She felt the blood drain from her face, she was suddenly glad that Cornelia couldn't see her expression. "It just makes sense…doesn't it?"

Her sister huffed, but moved away, leaving Will alone to deal with the task of soothing her already frantic heart.

* * *

At tea, later that day, Susanna could only discuss her relief at Caleb not being kidnapped. _Kidnapping_ you see, after sickness, poverty and death through witch craft was her greatest fear. 

"Well, at least he is safe…" Susanna swallowed another mouthful of tea, unintentionally cringing at the bitter taste.

"He could have left a note though…" Irma muttered, once again having regressed to the comfort of her depression.

"You'll need to understand men Irma if you're to have a suitable husband," Susanna dabbed the sides of her mouth with a napkin, completely oblivious to the way Irma's frown deepened at her words. "They never leave _notes_…always off…saving the world!"

The rest of the tea continued in silence, for each member of the party was far too lost in their own thoughts to piece together anything resembling a conversation.

"I need to post a letter…to a dressmaker," Susanna sighed finally, rubbing the bridge of her nose as though post was the most difficult thing to accomplish. "Where's Steven?"

"He isn't here," Cornelia answered without missing a beat, "I went to ask him if he had seen Caleb and one of those house girls told me that he had yet to return from his excursion – not since _yesterday_!" she paused to take a deep breath. "Mother I seriously don't know why you keep him around, especially after…" she moved her eyes suggestively towards Irma.

"Oh yes, very subtle Cornelia…I don't have a single idea as to who you're referring to now…" Irma rolled her eyes.

"Well, I can't sack him…if I do then it would be admitting to the world that these rumors are true…"

"Aren't they true?" Will questioned.

"Yes, but no one else has to know that!"

Susanna's logic, as idiotic as it sounded out loud, actually held up, especially when you knew the rules of society as well as the girls did.

Their mother cleared her throat loudly, "Well now how am I to get this letter posted – it has to be done today…I need you measured for the gown by next week…"

"Why next week?" Will asked, barely keeping herself tuned in for sleep was honestly on her heels by now.

"I've decided to push the wedding up – it's in three weeks now…for the bridesmaids, I was thinking _red_, the color of passion, but then I realized that Will's hair is red and it would clash so terribly –"

"What?" Irma darted upright, "Why push the wedding?"

"Life is too short to wait," came the obscure reply, "And besides, Cornelia, you don't mind…"

Cornelia dutifully shook her head.

"Good…now about this letter…"

"I'll do it." Will spoke up, glad for any reason to leave, "I'll take one of the horses to the post office…it isn't that far away," she added after seeing their looks of disapproval.

"What if someone sees you – _riding _– Goodness knows that you won't do it side saddle…" Cornelia drawled.

"Yes, Will and what about the rain…I'd hate it if you were to catch something and then give it to all of us so near to the ceremony…" Susanna's eyes narrowed.

"I'll be back before the rain falls," Will was already standing.

"All right then," her mother submitted, "I'll go get the letter…" She moved away to her downstairs study.

"I have a letter…to one of my school friends, that I'd like you to post Will," Irma brightened at once and rushed upstairs to find the offending scrap of paper.

"You are such a boy…" Cornelia scolded.

"For shame Cornelia," Will mimicked her condescending tone, "It would appear to me that you have lost the ability to differentiate between the sexes…have you been around Mister Olsen that long?"

It gave her a sick sort of gratification to watch as her sister's mouth dropped, only to snap shut at Susanna's subsequent re-entry.

"Be back soon…" she warned.

"All right," Will's eyes followed Irma as she ran down the stairway, letter in hand.

"Here!" she breathed, seeming very pink and flushed.

"Have you been _running_?" Cornelia narrowed her eyes at Irma, who stuck out her tongue in response.

"I'll be off," Will moved quickly, before her mother changed her mind and realized that she had about fourteen more than capable male workers who would have willingly done this errand for her.

* * *

The trip to town hadn't gone as expected. True, Caleb had gotten the driver the long needed medical help that he so desperately needed, but afterwards…he had run into Taranee. 

Usually this wouldn't have been a problem…after all; Taranee could have well embodied the intelligent conversation that he had so desperately wanted. But today, Taranee seemed…unpredictable.

"I don't understand what's going on!" she had screamed after pulling Caleb into a nearby alleyway.

"What do you…"

"Nothing – all of this time and we have nothing on this…not to mention Dublin is constantly breathing down my neck!" the shadows from the alley moved along her face as she paced, Caleb followed her with his eyes.

"It's only been one day…"

"What are you doing here anyway!" she faced him, "Did you find something out?"

"No…didn't Dublin tell you – we had an accident and…"

"It doesn't matter," Taranne snorted, "What do you mean _no _– and why the hell not?"

"What was I supposed to do – you have me pretending to be some damned socialite, am I supposed to go up to my so called bride to be and ask her to give me details of her step father…do you really think that would work?"

She huffed, stopping in her tracks, "Don't you complain to me!"

"I'm not complaining – it's just that this isn't as easy as you seem to think…" he leaned against the damp brick wall, quiet followed as a streak of lightning illuminated the sky.

"Look, I want you to check the surroundings of the Vandom estate…for anything, tracks, animals…I'm beginning to think that he probably isn't that far away." Taranee adjusted her hat.

"How am I supposed to find you?" Caleb began to follow her from the tiny space. She shrugged in response, "I'll find you." She pushed the brim of her hat further down her face, and pushed the collar of her jacket upward.

Caleb understood – protection.

* * *

It's odd how things would always turn out this way whenever she was concerned, Will thought – had she been more like her sisters, she would have declared that God was out to spite her…hell she had done it unwittingly so many times already that she was completely assured of her family relationship by now. 

Certainly, she had delivered the letters, that part had been easy, but upon tethering the stupid horse to the stupid fence, the stupid knot had come undone, and the horse having been given to her mother by one of her stupid beaus, had run away. Leaving Will to walk home after sunset…_alone_.

Which hadn't been so bad, she actually liked walking. Well, more accurately, she liked walking when it wasn't raining. And of course, being such a wonderful day…wait no…week, it had started to pour.

Lucky her.

'_Well,'_ Will thought, trying to draw a page from Irma's book of eternal optimism, _'At least this was another chance to ruin Cornelia's shoes.'_

Resisting the sudden urge to run home and track mud all over her mother's prized carpet (antique her ass). Will decided then to enjoy her walk, because rain or not, this was probably the most freedom she would taste for a long time.

* * *

_Why_ had he thought that it would be possible to search for anything in the darkness – in unknown territory to boot! 

What the hell was he looking for anyway? It was too dry for any animal to leave tracks, and Phobos would have to be unbelievably daft to camp out less than a mile away from his former wife's estate.

To add insult to injury, it had started raining; the heavens had finally burst with the moisture that they had been withholding for the last month. As a result, his mood was not improving…

Taranee was loosing her touch. _Stress,_ he dismissed it as tiredness at once he had known her for too long, carelessness was not a word generally associated with his dark haired leader.

God, he couldn't imagine anyone older than the age of five who would actually like the rain. It was a damned nuisance, damned _noisy_ nuisance. It could mimic the sounds of anything, he was certain. Right now he could just hear footsteps as he moved through the night…he needed to find where he had left the carriage.

The sound of footsteps grew louder. He stopped. That wasn't the rain…there was something…someone there. Slowly, he drew closer, making sure that he remained hidden behind the trunk of one of the multitude of oak trees.

He tried to steady his pulse…he knew better, he had done this before. He just needed to keep calm…stay focused.

Yes, he could see the person now too…the unclear outline shocked him, but steadily the person walked on, undeterred by the unwavering rain. His pulse quickened, and he left his haven, ready to pounce.

Who could this person be? They were too small to be Phobos and if it was a thief, they certainly weren't a very good one…they were alone, and often stopped to nosily wring the water from their clothes.

He crept up behind them, as silently as he could in such weather, before the recognition dawned upon him.

_Her._

His hands jerked forward to seize her shoulders, harshly whipping her around to face him. She gasped, understandably startled, but overcame all initial uneasiness upon noticing her attacker's identity.

Her mouth dropped open to issue some vulgar statement, but he beat her to it.

"What in the bloody hell are you doing out here?" his grip on her arms tightened as he spoke.

Rain water poured along her cheeks, matted strands of her dripping red hair had already stuck to her face, but she seemed unaware of anything but him.

"Let go of me!" she tried, fruitlessly, to wrench herself free from his possession.

He ignored her twisting, "Do you have any idea in that stubborn little head of yours just how dangerous it is to be outside at this time of night?"

He was grateful for the discordant thunderclap that pursued his words, it made him seem all the more menacing.

"But yet you're here – how _valiant_!" her twisting had become abruptly more frantic.

"For a _girl_!" he could already feel the heated stirrings of his irritation, creeping along his skin.

She paused, and he could see something explode in her brown eyes. "What is your obsession with gender Mister Olsen?" she smirked, a sign of impending displeasure where he was concerned, "_I_ think that it shows some masculine insecurity on your part!"

The freezing precipitation slapped against his skin, although it could do nothing to quell the flame of exasperation now racing through his veins. "Why are you like this?" she had turned her face away so that she couldn't look at him, "Don't you understand that there is a murdering lunatic on the prowl?"

She snorted, although she once more met his gaze, "Very enlightening," she spoke slowly, "But the only lunatic that I'm worried about is you." She turned away again, leaving him completely infuriated.

"You are unbelievable!" and without another thought he released his hold of her arms, only to clutch her about the waist, and position her upon his shoulder.

Her screams of indignation were obscured by the noise of the bombarding rain and subsequent thunder.

All thoughts of "searching" and carriages presently forgotten, he slowly moved towards the main house, a difficult task due to the thrashing girl her carried, as well as the horrific downpour.

She had called him what he thought had to have been all the adjectives that she knew…in fact, he was rather sure that she had invented a few for the occasion. After, what had seemed like forever, she quieted; but he thought that in her silence, he could actually feel the rage being secreted from her in droves.

He saw the gloomy outline of the stable first, and decided to head there instead, since traveling, well moving was becoming increasingly difficult.

* * *

He allowed her to slide from his shoulder, a mistake, since in the present circumstances, any sort of sliding led to slipping, which led, inevitably to falling. 

And fall she did, hard, into what he assumed was a puddle outside the stables' door. It was far too dark to see clearly, but he could perfectly imagine her face, contorted in rage, ready to unleash a harsh verbal assault.

Will, from her vantage point stared up at her assailant with as much revulsion as she could muster; she took in the sight of his clinging shirt with apprehension, for it caused a knot that had been remaining within her stomach to untangle.

She managed to ignore it, as well as the heat caressing her frigid face, instead concentrating on a far safer emotion – anger.

"You insufferable _pig_!" he crossed his arms and stared down at her, a supercilious smile tugging at the edges of his mouth.

She continued, "How dare you accost me…first in the pond, and now here!"

Each rapid rise and fall of her chest caused his attentions to linger on the fragments of water gliding along her pale body. For a moment, her words faded into nothingness…

"That's all well and good _Miss Vandom_," he cleared his throat awkwardly, suddenly glad for the cold, "But at least you are safe here."

"_Safe_?" she screamed, "I will never be safe as long as I am in your presence!"

He raised an eyebrow at her; she crossed her arms and refused to look at him.

Sulking.

Still, he held out his arm, as a wordless peace offering…which she rejected, smacking it away.

"I don't need your help," she stated, folding her legs under the hem of her skirt, seemingly oblivious to the heavy rain pounding against her head. "In fact," her gaze raced upwards, "I think that you are the most…arrogant, despicable – impudent …" she paused, searching her mind for something that she hadn't already called him.

"Gentleman?" Caleb put in, smiling at her reaction.

"Of course not!" she hissed, "Oh yes…_jackass_, that I have ever had the misfortune of meeting!"

"Your opinion is always treasured," he nodded his head in mock agreement, "But now, if you'll allow me a bit of honesty as well."

She made an effort to stand, before tumbling back where she had started from with a hard _thump_.

"You, my dear lady…and I use that term very loosely of course," her mouth fell open, but he continued, "Are the rudest, most spoilt, disrespectful person that I have ever come across, and let it be known that I do know a great many people."

"My sympathies are with _them_, I assure you," she moved uncertainly to her feet again, this time with success, "And your comments would carry a great deal more weight had you not been engaged to my sister!"

"And you're ungrateful as well," his eyes landed atop her face, locking with her own.

"Ungrateful?" she scoffed.

His anger had mostly faded, evaporated, he thought, by the icy summer rains. "I carried you all this way, sustaining great physical damage and look, not even a word of thanks."

She didn't give off the impression of sharing his humor, or note his sarcastic tone of voice, "All right then, I'll support your fragile self-esteem, I _thank you_ for dragging me through the rain, I _thank you_ for throwing me into the mud, _thank you_ for insulting me…and of course bloody congratulations on annoying me to no end!" she turned to move away.

"Now if you'll excuse me Mister Olsen," she spat, "I'll be going home, or else I shall have to add pneumonia to that list."

"You're welcome," his low voice encircled her, chilling her body. She felt her mouth go dry, as her eyelids clamped shut; _not this again…_

Still, she refused to let him have the last word in this argument, rotating so that she would face him she began, "I hate you, I really do…and in all honesty, I cannot wait until you and Cornelia move far, _far_ away…"

Her breath had stilled in her throat, held captive by something that she had just seen in his eyes…he looked…_hungry_. She had seen this before —

She felt her face flush as he closed the space between the two of them, and in one swift movement he pulled her against his hard body, and glided his lips against hers.

She was lost in the exquisite sensation of his heady mouth as it began its tentative exploration of hers. His hands slid along her arms, causing a whisper of longing to ignite inside the pit of her stomach.

His tongue skimmed the velvety surface of her lips, somewhere inside of his tumultuous mind, he knew that kissing her was a mistake…that he would regret it, but the uncertainties were misplaced when she gave a sultry groan and opened her mouth to his advances.

He could feel her hands as they dragged upwards and became snarled in his wet hair, drawing him closer, deepening the kiss. Now, nothing seemed real but the dominant smell of her, the engaging taste of her, the glorious feeling of her curves mashed into his frame.

God knew how long they had stayed there, clinging to one another in the freezing rain.

When they finally pulled apart there was an awkward moment when her eyes were still closed, and her lips, now swollen and heavy were still open, her head still in his hands. It was the instant when reality had finally collided with their fantasy, the instant where lust had abandoned them both, and the realization of all that had just transpired descended.

She pulled away from him as though stung; a trembling hand touched her mouth, and she groaned. The water still pouring from the heavens did nothing to soothe her tender lips. She spared a glance to him…but, for once, she felt the words fail her. Instead she turned and for the first time in her life, ran _home,_ as fast as her legs would carry her.

* * *

**Author**: Aw, you guys spoil me with such lovely reviews. So here is some Will x Caleb action for a reward. To Ruberta, I'm glad you picked up on the spices thing; I did it because I could never understand exactly how people could smell like _roses_ every second of the day. 

Back to the action, the will be **_LOTS_** more where that came from. I do have to make up for lost time. Another long chapter gals, but no complaints yet, so I'll take it that you're not unhappy with the length. I just have a LOT to say, subplots and all. It may seem as though I'm rambling, but I'm not, each scene has a purpose, whether it is character development, plot development…whatever. That scene with Susanna being sick was incredibly important, and it was just for one line…it's a hard life I know.

To all the CxC fans who have been surprising sweet to me, this isn't a CxC fic, and "sadly" I have no intentions of changing that fact – sorry.

But for right now I fear that I must bid thee farewell, for studying calls. This will be my last chapter until June 10th. That's the last day of my exams…I don't want to do this but Physics…sadly doesn't learn itself. I hope this keeps you until then. Review please, I'm such a review whore :)

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

Chapter Six

* * *

She didn't cease her hasty retreat until she was ensured of her safety; _safety_ in this case was presently defined as being locked within the warmth of her bedroom with her hands clasped firmly behind her, and her back pressed stiffly against the heavy oak door.

Safety from _what_ however? From _him_…was her immediate answer, a response that made her pulse quicken, and a reaction that made her realize that her self made sanctuary was utterly useless in the battle against her and her disobedient emotions, one that mind you, she was currently losing…

Her breathing was erratic, her breaths – when she remembered to take them, sounded as though they could have been emitted from a drowning man, struggling for his life. From beneath the tangled ends of her hair that had fallen across her face she could just identify certain aspects of her room, her bed, the large window with lines of rain water gashed across its surface, the faltering candle at her bedside that had been undoubtedly left there by Irma after she had grown tired of ransacking her sister's belongings. But even those things seemed vague – surreal almost. Nothing in her mind registered except for the sounds of her thudding heart, the burning in her lungs and of course the rapidly spreading feeling of panic that appeared to be looming overhead.

She heard herself groan. How had this happened?

Or far more importantly…_why _it had happened. He had _kissed_ her…she had let him…she could have slapped him…no never mind that; she _should_ have smacked him good and hard in the defense of her innocence. But she hadn't, no, she hadn't. In fact she had allowed him to have his way with her…and (it hurt to admit) she had enjoyed it…completely enjoyed it.

This _obviously_ was dangerous. He was dangerous. A threat to the wellbeing of her hard wrought walls of apathy and self sufficiency; because no one had ever made her feel like _this_ before…

She reminded herself that she was currently far, far away from him. But yet, it didn't seem far enough, for she couldn't escape his presence. She could still feel him, where his fingers had dragged along her skin, where his breath had touched her face, where his lips had…

…her room slipped into darkness as she dredged up the memory. Abruptly she was surrounded by his clean scent; a strong mixture of leathers and soap…her fingertips on her mouth only forced her to recall the passion that she had –

_Stop it! _The command rang through her mind with all of the power of the thunder that was currently echoing in the night. Her common sense begged her to remain rational, to just calm down, to stop her heart from breaking through her chest.

It was hopeless.

She dragged her now numb palms along the sanded smooth surface of her door, silently begging the wood for some sort of comfort; none came of course, especially not the type of consolation she had hoped for, the reassurance that it had all been a dream, a fantasy cooked up by her over active mind due to listening to one too many of Irma's romances…

Yes, a dream, it was all perfectly conceivable…

However her trembling limbs told her otherwise, as did her rapid heart rate. For God's sake she was shaking…

'_Well of course you are stupid_,' the same voice chided, '_You just ran through the freezing rain.'_

Oh yes, that had to be it…she was _cold_. She managed a nervous laugh at her situation; it was uncanny how he seemed to possess the ability to get her drenched…

Oh…there it was again, the churning in the pit of her stomach, the burning in her face as the color literally vanished from her cheeks.

It wasn't though she hadn't been kissed before…despite her family's strong beliefs that her spinsterhood was imminent, she _had_ experienced _some_ schoolgirl moments…most of them upon retrospect were too short and had been attempted just for the hell of it, but they had transpired…nevertheless somehow those timid, curious kisses that she had procured from Jacob Potter behind his family's barn could not even hope to compare to the mind numbing sensations that _he_ had just extracted.

'_Stop it Will.'_ She felt her lips move and knew that she must be whispering, "Just stop it," she pushed, although this time louder and with more emphasis. "You are overreacting." her eyes fell shut, "He's British for Heaven's sake…it could be normal for him to kiss you."

It was a pathetic excuse, but it was still better than the alternative; a lonely, lingering thought that had been tormenting her from the moment that they had broken the intimate contact. The idea that perhaps, he had wanted to kiss her, for no other reason than he had wanted to, because perhaps, even in this world there could be men who found the pitiable, too small, misfit Will more attractive than her faultless sister.

Another sound echoed in her dry throat, one that she instantly credited to disbelief. Now, she forced a smile, for that to happen she would really have to be dreaming.

* * *

Outside, beneath the inharmonious orchestra of a summer storm, paced the object of Will's restlessness. Sympathy for her agitation was not to be found with him however, for he too was a disgruntled victim of the same confusion that he knew must be plaguing her.

In fact, his bewilderment was exceptionally worse in his opinion – owing to the fact that it was he who was supposed to hold the answers to any question on his behavior. And unfortunately, _quite_ unfortunately – he didn't.

After chewing on it for what had to have been an hour and still not finding a suitable answer; after watching as _that girl_ all but flew away from him, he had decided to simply blame it on good old fashioned masculine stupidity.

The urge to replenish the earth, to go forth and multiply as his father had memorably quoted, was always overwhelming for a man, well so he had been told. He could even remember now his father's words to him: _'Infatuation with a woman will always be the death of a good man'_. He had then launched into a long winded analysis of the bible, comparing his own faltering marriage to the exile of Adam and Eve from paradise.

Well, he wouldn't go that far…Caleb decided, although his decision to sample the so called forbidden fruit would probably lead to his banishment from this place, once the powers to be were informed…but of course, this mad house was hardly paradise. And what was worse was that his infatuation wasn't even with a woman, it was with a girl. An infuriating, offensive little thing who…

…who had the sweetest damn lips that he had ever tasted. God she was distracting…did she even know what she did to him? Did she know that even as he had watched her running across the landscaped gardens to her house that it was all he could do to stop himself from chasing after her, from pulling her against him and kissing her again and again –

Which once again led to his initial question; why had he kissed her? It certainly hadn't been planned. Nothing had been going how he had expected it actually. If it had been he would have been long gone from here by now, off searching for Phobos or doing something useful. Not lusting after little girls.

Well, he thought as the rain beat a crescendo atop his already damp head; now he had done it, he had practically guaranteed the failure of this mission all for a…despicably short romp with _her_. And there would be no more romping in the future, he was certain of that; even if he left now he was still as good as dead…if Taranee didn't slaughter him then Susanna probably would.

Another sigh was released before he decided that this wandering was childish. There were no reasons on why he was attracted to her to be found in the dreary puddles at his feet. It was best to go inside, to at least try to get some rest on that too soft mattress. And then tomorrow…well then tomorrow he would deal with whatever happened.

Running a hand through his clumping hair, he instinctively looked towards the hazy outline of the brick house peering down at him from above the treetops that surrounded it. From here he could see it, well, what he assumed must be it; her room. It was the only window with a light still inside. He watched for a while as the candle flickered and then faded, knowing that she must still be awake.

That knowledge caused his stomach to inexplicably knot. And it was then that he knew, even if he didn't choose to admit it; that although kissing her had been incredibly dense – he didn't regret it. He couldn't. For with each thought of lament came the more powerful memory of feeling her trembling lips as they parted, or the bittersweet taste of her mouth as his tongue discovered hers…

He shook his head wildly, trying to erase the thoughts that had led him into this position in the first place. Vaguely he remembered to retrieve the horse and carriage from where he had left them…yes, that was it, be practical. Stay calm.

Get some sleep. It would all make more sense in the morning.

Well, he hoped.

* * *

The sunlight hummed a glorious melody of welcome upon the morrow. Shattered rays of the morning star played across the muddy earth, sending minuscule explosions of light upwards when they became trapped within the remaining water. The rain had ended, and now an air of serenity had descended upon the world, and it whispered promises to lull them all into a state of unadulterated bliss.

Although Susanna on this fine morning had substantially more important things on her mind than the juvenile promises of the sun. There was the small matter of that wedding to plan, and after all… it must be done quickly. There were dresses to be made, cousins to be sent for…and as Irma had so happily reminded her of this morning, if they didn't host a post-engagement ball then people would talk.

It was too much to be done in only three weeks…but it had to be, so inevitably she would have to find a way to accomplish the task. Why, even three weeks might be too long a wait…

No, she shouldn't think like that. It would work out, everything would be fine. The wedding would come off without a hitch and it would all be perfect. Besides she had two daughters who would help her plan the events…even if they did so unenthusiastically.

Which was of course the reasoning behind the hasty promenade she was currently undertaking to Will's adjacent room; her eldest would help Irma in the planning of the ball…God she must be anxious if she was to allow those two to plan anything. But this was not the time to be choosy; time was not a quantity that she possessed in abundance.

Speaking of time…didn't Will know how late it was? Why wasn't she downstairs already? Susanna straightened her back and pounded on the heavy door, she was convinced that there was something wrong with that child. Even after the hour that she had returned home last night she had then (to Susanna's annoyance) spent another half of the night walking up and down her room. Well, they would have a long discussion about this…when the wedding was over.

"Wilhelmina!" she called after another few minutes when she had still not opened the door. A muffled scream was her reply. And she was always so angry! "Don't start with that tone today young lady!"

She was about to begin an abridged version of the previously mentioned discussion when the door was pulled open, revealing a very puffy, ashen version of her daughter. Any thoughts of scolding quickly fled her mind. "What in the world happened to you?" she didn't bother to soften the words, for so unbearable was Will's appearance. "Are you ill?"

"No." replied the red head in a hoarse sort of voice. Susanna raked her gaze along Will's body; she was wearing the same dress as when she had set off for the post office yesterday…her hair, which was never a pretty sight as of late, was worse, having decided to rebel in every which way. "I didn't get much sleep last night." Will croaked in the same tired tone.

"Well of course you didn't, you arrived here after midnight." Susanna narrowed her eyes, studying her daughter's face. "Are you certain you didn't catch something…you look like you did when you had the measles."

"I'm certain." she managed through a yawn.

"Go take a bath…me and Irma…" she frowned, "Irma and I, are planning the wedding and you will come downstairs to help us."

Susanna would have been lying if she said that she had expected Will to take the order well. She had imagined the same uncontrollable fury that always seemed to be waiting dormant beneath the mask of unconcern to be unleashed in a torrent of sarcasm and curses.

But instead, Will nodded and retreated inside to undress within her closet. Her mother allowed her jaw to fall…could it be…that finally after all of these years she had finally learnt to behave like a lady?

Well, it was about damn time! She didn't know what it was that had brought on this sudden change, but whatever it was…she was most grateful for it.

* * *

Jeffery was drunk. That wasn't much of a surprise, Irma decided, you see for as long as she could recall their butler had always been high on some level of intoxication. But, it just wasn't usual for him to be bent over backwards, head in the clouds, could not tell up from down drunk…as he was now.

Seated comfortably in the study, Irma watched happily as the old man lay sprawled across her mother's favorite bentwood chair. He would mumble the most _interesting_ things every once in a while, which of course was enough motivation for Irma to ignore the disgust that it caused her to look at the slobbering, unwashed excuse for a man.

She supposed that at the very least, the motivation for his drunkenness had been noble; well originally it had been. For after the realization that at midnight Will had yet to return home from the post office; Jeffery had taken to the family's liquor cabinet, intending to find a sedative to ease his "worry". It was only when he had exhausted their supply of fine wines had he declared himself composed enough to lead a search party to find the elusive red head.

Those statements of bravery had no sooner left his lips before he had collapsed on top of his employer's chair…and had been unable to move since. He had been too far gone to hear Will's loud entrance some ten minutes later, and (luckily) much too immersed in his sleeping to feign any sort of outrage at the noise she made her pacing throughout most of the night.

Irma groaned and rubbed her tired eyes. She wasn't upset…she was too tired to be much of anything really. Also she knew…or at least once she would have known that there must have been something bothering her sister.

They hadn't been very close lately, what with Will becoming more sullen by the hour and Irma becoming livelier. She supposed that she could blame her sister's mood on the wedding; God only knew that it was upsetting her as well.

As if Cornelia didn't get enough attention, now she was getting married. Well, sighed Irma, in any case they would have a ball. She had never been to one before, and quite understandably she was very excited. Oh! She would need to get a dance card…

Her mother entered the study then, carrying in her folded arms what had to have been hundreds of fabrics, all stapled together. She was muttering something unintelligible to a figure behind her…Will, Irma realized. Who, if possible was looking even worse than she felt.

Her wild, red hair was still damp from the bath that their mother had probably insisted that she take, and her clothes had an overly starched look about them. She looked paler as well, making the freckles that were scattered across her small body stand out even more.

Both females cast an odd look at Jeffery, who had just emitted a particularly loud snort at the sound of Susanna's voice, but it was a brief one for both of them and then they soon took their seats across from Irma on opposite sides of the table.

Immediately Susanna threw the cloths atop of the surface and snatched a large book from Will's hands. Will, for her part in the drama looked utterly unconcerned at her mother's words or actions, and propped a hand against her chin before casting a long distracted look in the direction of the ground.

She had been right, Irma thought, something was unquestionably troubling her sister. You would have to be blind not to notice.

"Now the wedding has to be on a Wednesday…it is a known fact that Saturdays are cursed." Susanna skimmed through the pages of the book. "I just wish I had known that before I married your father Irma."

And apparently their mother was blind, dumb and deaf because she was still prattling on about Tuesday being the only other choice of date rather than wondering why Will would have followed her here to listen to such a conversation in the first place.

Irma repressed a sigh of frustration; it was up to her then. She tossed a grin in her sister's direction. "Now Will, if you force your face like that you'll start to resemble Cornelia…" she ended in a good natured snort, which soon fell flat. Will hadn't even blinked; Irma doubted that she had heard a single word.

"Will, since you are so sickly remind me to have you married on a Monday – for health…" her mother hadn't heard either, which was probably for the best. Her ears still ached from the argument that they had had earlier this morning concerning the ball.

"Where is Cornelia?" Irma questioned. "Why isn't she here helping us plan _her_ wedding?"

Susanna scribbled something feverishly into the book she was squinting at before clasping her hands against her bodice. "Oh, your sister is upstairs preparing for the romantic picnic that she will soon attend with Caleb."

Will's eyes darted upwards at the mention of his name, but they fell back to the spot on the carpet only a second after…anyways, Irma was far too engrossed in stating her repugnance towards this picnic to have noticed the subtle change.

"_Getting ready_?" she scoffed, "It's almost noon, how long could getting ready possibly take?"

"She is trying to look natural Irma," Susanna dropped her voice and leaned forward menacingly, "And don't you go doing anything to jeopardize this courtship!"

"_Me?_" Irma gasped, "Why would I…"

"I am not saying that you would, I am telling you not to." Her eyes flashed a dangerous shade of amethyst before she returned her gaze to the book. "Just leave those two love birds alone – have you seen them, goodness they're practically half in love already!" she ran a long, ring burdened finger along a strip of plaid fabric. "Yesterday, when I discovered that Caleb had disappeared, I swore that they had eloped."

"How observant of you mother, seeing as Cornelia was still at home pining for her faltering complexion, exactly who did you imagine that he had eloped with?" Irma looked away from her mother to throw a tired look in her sister's direction. Perhaps she was just tired.

"You terrible jealous girl!" Susanna scolded. "Just for once could you be happy for your sister?"

"Why bother? You seem to be happy enough for the lot of us." Irma leaned heavily into the back of her chair, causing several scraps of spare fabric to flutter to the ground. "Why _are_ you so thrilled anyway?" Irma threw more of the stapled cloths out of her way. "I could understand if it was Will who was to leave you, but you love Cornelia."

Again Will seemed completely unresponsive to the poorly concealed jest. Susanna on the other hand, faltered. Although for only an instant, but she recovered so quickly in fact that you could even disregard the emotion that darkened her purple eyes when she spoke; "Darling, when you are my age and your daughter is about to marry into a title, you can come to me and we may talk about why _you_ are so happy."

"Oh," slurred Jeffery, "It has always been a dream of mine to marry into a title!"

"But it seems that for right now you shall have to settle for the company of The Earl Of Vodka and The Duke Of Brandy." Irma managed before dissolving in a fit of poorly cloaked giggles.

"Now, _Will_," eager for a change of topic, Susanna turned to her eldest, causing the redhead to jump, "What do you remember about the ball…we must out do those – ingrates!"

Finally, the reasoning behind Will's presence was revealed; _the Potters_. Her mother was trying to out do the Potters. "_Ingrates_…whatever did they do to you?" snorted Irma.

"Who, Irma with the exception of the horrible Spaniards, would see a house filled with two eligible women, you and your sister – and then only invite one person to a social event!"

"Oh yes – I had really wanted to go to that ball, and then Will went got herself…" Irma made a face and allowed her voice to drop several octaves before continuing, "…removed from the premises."

"They knew that it would happen…dirty lot…I heard that they had roots in Spain –" she frowned heavily. "I was thinking actually, wouldn't it be fun for all of us to make our dresses match the drapes?"

"Oh that would be wonderful mother," Will surprised them by issuing her first impolite statement of the day; "And then you could have your guests wear petticoats that match the tablecloth."

Irma sniggered, feeling undeniably pleased that at least Will didn't seem quite so morose any more. "We would show those Potters a thing or two then wouldn't we?"

Her mother simply scowled, obviously displeased at Will's comment, but tossed the plaid aside. "Anyway…I have sent for a dressmaker to come here, if Will found time to deliver those letters in between her adventures in the rain."

"I delivered them," she muttered. "Your horse ran away, that's why I was so late…it's the only reason." She added softly.

"What, again?" The dark haired woman grumbled, "I hate horses, if I didn't have to spend so much money replacing horses then maybe I could afford…" her eyes glazed over. "A golden carriage to carry Cornelia to the wedding…"

"Madam," A young man entered the room and then bowed heavily. "There is a Mister Olsen here to see you."

Susanna gasped. "Already!" she screeched. "Irma sit up straight…Will take your blasted hands off the arms of that chair, and do something about your hair!" She barked orders while carrying the scraps of fabric across the room, only to deposit them onto Jeffery's slumbering form. Irma found herself laughing; she wasn't seriously trying to hide him was she?

"Oh – mother…" Will had rushed to her feet. "I-I think that you were right, I am feeling very ill…" Indeed she did look significantly pastier than before.

"Go send for Caleb, Peter." Susanna spoke to the incredulous looking youth before attempting to hide Jeffery's face with a particularly nasty looking green piece of silk. "What do you mean you're sick?" she asked offhandedly.

"It's nothing…" Will was already halfway to the door. "I just need to go and lie down…"

"Well, can't it wait until Mister Olsen has left…you're not dying." Satisfied with her handiwork, their mother began smoothing out the folds of her dress and commanded that Irma do the same.

"Oh, I think that I am…" Will placed her shaking hands across her chest, watching the door with mounting apprehension.

"Just sit down, I know that you aren't too fond of Caleb, but he is practically our family and you will have to become used to him eventually."

Will certainly didn't appear to agree, if anything she looked absolutely terrified at the prospect of being in the presence of her future brother in law. Was that what had been bothering her? Irma pondered…could that explain the running and the pacing? Could it all be because of him?

Again Will groaned before burying her face in her hands. "I'll be upstairs." She mumbled before rushing out the door.

Her mother called after her, but it was too late. The sound of the resulting collision was unmistakable. "S-sorry…" Irma heard Will stammer; before the sounds of her retreating footsteps drowned out any other snippets of conversation that could have drifted into the room had the house been quieter.

Now their mother was the one who was talking, laughing in that way that she always did when in the company of a man…any man. "I do apologize for Will's behavior." She shook her head to show how utterly confused she was, "I believe that she's part insane…but she gets that from her father's side, believe me."

As the older woman led a very bewildered looking Mister Olsen into the darkly colored room, Irma didn't even allow her gaze to wander over his features…or his assets, as she was accustomed…

But that couldn't be it, could it? But then what else could it be? Her hand pulled at a spot on her chin as she thought. Well, if were true, then she would have single-handedly figured out what had been plaguing her sister.

And God what a plague that was.

* * *

So she was hiding. Will wasn't the sort to lie about her intentions, especially when they were as obvious as hers. So maybe she was a coward, and perhaps nothing good could come out of running from her problems (or more particularly her problem), but what good was bravery now? That was true…yes, what good was all of the courage in the world if she melted completely at the feet of her assailant.

Simply put, it was no good. Therefore her retreat to the confines of the library had been perfectly justified.

What made her immediate circumstance even better was that she was completely protected here. She knew for a fact that no one in her family knew exactly where the library was, or more importantly would be willing to descend the old termite infested stairway to access it once they discovered its location.

In fact, the only person that she could remember who had taken advantage of the library in the past had been Phobos. And well, perhaps he had merely been hiding as well.

For the first time in a long while Will felt cheerful. There was a particular note of self satisfaction in the thoughts now dancing across her mind that hadn't been there before and she was relishing in it. Perhaps she could make use of this library more often, Will decided, it would be better than jumping out of trees after all…although, it could use some lighting…and defiantly a good cleaning, but after that…

And down here she could catch up on her reading, even though the only literature that would in all probability be found on the shelves of the musky room would be those Gothic romances that she had sworn off after last night.

Well, Phobos had been doing something down here hadn't he? Will squinted through the semi darkness, searching for a ladder…and quite frankly she imagined that she would prefer his reading material to the sordid adventures of Alice and the doorman.

After nearly a minute, Will's eyes found what they were looking for. A cobweb coated ladder that was propped precariously against a shelf that looked for the most part… unsteady. Stumbling through the darkness she dragged the piece of furniture towards a bookshelf that had a more sturdy appearance, and began the ascent towards more appealing reading material.

* * *

Well, it appeared that even down here she could not avoid falling, for she hadn't even been on the third rung before her foot missed the other. The scream hadn't yet left her lips before her heart had begun to race. Luckily for all of years of falling out of trees, she had learnt to hold on. It was odd that she could call that luck.

"Oh shit." She muttered when the blood had quieted in her ears. She tried to laugh it off, to call herself fortunate and then to move on – a good plan, until another voice entered the consecrated walls of her safe haven.

"Does your mother know that you swear?" _Him_. Her blood instantly froze in her body, causing chills to run along her skin. Her mouth went dry and, oh god she was shaking –again. From within the one sane region of her mind she could hear the directions coming. _Advice_ she acknowledged…advice she should take. God, she probably looked like such a fool already, holding onto a ladder for dear life, shaking like a leaf. _'Calm down then,'_ the voice snapped, _'be natural…you can do it.'_

"Does your father know that you harass young women in their libraries?" her words sounded just as she had wanted them to, cold, unconcerned. She was good at this by now she reminded herself; after all her entire life had been practice.

"What?" his response was priceless. Confusion, good, now she had the upper hand.

"I'll take that as a no then…" Will steadied herself and took a long encouraging breath, trying to ignore the questions that were ricocheting off the walls of her psyche. Why was he here? That was the first one…after that came: how had he found her? And then her personal favorite, how could she get past him to her room?

He didn't seem to notice her panic or identify with her frustrations at all, for he was presently descending the stairs towards her. Instinctively, Will tumbled off the ladder, although she managed to land on both her feet, which was good seeing as she really hadn't wanted for him to see her sprawled on the dusty floor.

"I came to apologize to you, Miss Vandom…" he began, and she stilled, appreciating just how close to her he had ventured, even worse was the fact that she had become strangely mesmerized by the sound of his voice. "For last night, it should have never happened—and…"

The sound of his words faded away into nothingness, releasing their hold on her and for a long second; she presumed that one of the last questions had escaped into the open…the particularly potent – why did you kiss me? And that worried her. She hadn't really wanted an answer.

It hadn't, she soon confirmed, seeing as her mouth was practically pinned shut. Apparently, they would avoid the root of the topic then. Well, that was fine by her. "Well, I accept your apology, and you're right, you had no authority to…_touch_…me in such a manner and…"

"You're not blaming this all on me?" he actually had the impudence to look astonished.

"Of course I am! And I'll ask you to remember that it was you who kissed me, not the other way around!" she climbed a rung on the ladder, just so that she would be able to level him with her steely gaze.

"You could have stopped me…" he came closer, and the air in the room suddenly vanished. Now she found herself concentrating solely on the lines of his face, the curve of his upper lip…and the mystifying shades of green that were buried beneath his eyes.

'_You will ignore this!'_

"_I could have stopped you_…by the time I realized what was happening; your tongue was already half-way down my throat!" If only she could have congratulated herself, she would have done it then. The entire scene as it played out before her was becoming far less erotic and far more stressful. And stress was an emotion she knew how to manipulate quite well.

"I don't know why I ever bothered to look for you. I see now that I was wrong to believe that you could ever behave like an adult, and just accept the consequences of your actions…" he was backing away…good, good, and stop looking at me with those damned eyes, shit, she was still trembling…this had to end now or she would break – _finish him now Will; you can do it._

"Of _my_ actions…I don't think that it's _my_ actions that we should be concerned about!" she snapped, she had expected him to insult her, and then to leave. But he didn't, which left her in a dreadfully uncomfortable situation.

"You just refuse to admit that you could have wanted me to kiss you—that you enjoyed it…" so he would sink _this_ low. She swallowed, and allowed her face to express the outrage that was currently blistering the pit of her stomach.

"You are so egotistical!" her cheeks burned with the knowledge of his accusation (knowledge that it was in all probability true). "I never wanted you to lay a hand on me…" He drew even nearer, she stammered, "I still don't…"

She could feel him by now – he was so close that the heat radiating from his body was actually burning her skin. She pressed even further into the ladder, until the outline of the tool could doubtlessly be found drawn onto her flesh.

He stopped then, to more or less adjust his position so that his arms would be on either side of her body – trapping her. She didn't want to be here – did she?

This was entirely too familiar, well, yes; the same dreamlike atmosphere from last night was present here in excess as well; because honestly, in what world would this happen? She barely had the time to wonder before her hands (traitorous beasts) rushed forward to loose themselves in the fabric of his shirt.

Heaven help her because she was gone now…

Falling victim to her heaving breathing and quivering limbs, she allowed herself to slip into darkness, the tips of her eyelashes just brushing the soft skin of her face. Nothing mattered now, she told herself, not her mother, not her sister, not the wedding that was bearing down on them both – nothing but him and the marvelous sensations that he would create for her. Of course, she wouldn't let him know just how much she wanted this.

She imagined that she just about died when his fingers glided across her lips; blindly she reached for his hand and pulled him closer…

With his mouth he captured her very soul, his lips moved against hers, slowly, softly, but with a devilish passion unlike anything she had ever experienced. She felt weak – she couldn't breathe – she didn't want to. His tongue snaked along her lips, begging for refuge within the heated confines of her mouth, sanctuary that she willingly surrendered.

A solitary moan rippled through her, the only sound to be heard within the humid space of the library. The noise seemed to entice him even further, as he pushed her still harder against the ladder; a momentary discomfort that she was quite willing to ignore as long as long as the fire scorching her being was quelled.

Their tongues intertwined, lustfully moving to the intimate dance that their master's had discovered only moments before. He tasted of something that she couldn't name – but still she still somehow knew that it was _something _she that she needed…

Her fingers grazed upwards, not ceasing their virgin-like exploration of his neck until they had become lost in the tangle of brown that was his hair. Inside her flustered mind there was nothing; save for him and his glorious mouth.

Behind her she heard the shelf quake before several novels fell from their respective perches, a predominantly heavy version hit her on her head. Another one rushed past them, causing a gust of wind to caress her burning face, when it landed the _thud_ that it made with the ground only intensified the thumping of her heart.

He pulled away; it was an uncomfortable feeling, one that she hadn't been expecting…their lips still clung together and all she wanted for him to do was to continue.

"What is wrong with you?" she wasn't sure at the moment if she was referring to herself or to him, but he took it as the latter.

"We really shouldn't be doing this," she squinted at him…what did he mean by that?

"Well, this is a fine time to decide on that one." Will muttered before untangling her arms from around his neck and pushing him away from her. An action, she chided, which would have been far more effective had it been done a few minutes ago.

She folded her arms across her chest, and refused to look at him. "Are you happy now?" unexplainably she had somehow found the need to drag this conversation back to the surface. "You were right." The pride had faded away; it didn't matter now anyway. The façade was useless she told herself, he already knew just how she felt about him.

It was simply too bad that the comprehension hadn't gone both ways.

* * *

**Author:** Don't you hate it when authors don't update for weeks and then leave you with cliffhangers…well…so do I. But I had to do it, because the rest of this scene won't end.

Anyways, I'm back a week early but my exams aren't over. I have a multiple choice one the on the sixth but I will never be desperate enough to study for a multiple choice exam. I figured that before I went and slept for a few days, and then went back to studying, I'd come and write some stuff you know get it out of my system,because you see, while trying to recall the Pressure Laws or some such imprudence, I figured out how to complicate this plot even further…

As a result most of the kissing will be taken out. Like that scene from up there in the library, I was supposed to take out the kissing, but I got really into it after a while…so I decided to just cut it short…

But after this you'll have to wait for more snogging. Also I'm taking some of it out because after awhile the entire relationship became too superficial…aka it reminded me of the CxC that I despise so much. One last thing, I think that it is important that you note that Irma doesn't knw what is going on between Will and Caleb, she right now thinks that Will has a crush on him. I'll explain it in the next chapter (whenever that comes around) but I didn't want you guys getting any odd ideas. Well, that's it; these chapters are long enough without me writing foot long author notes. Reviews make me happy...

**P/S**: Here's to season two! Because since Greg Wiseman has promised that they will stick to the comics, this can mean only one thing…goodbye CxC. HAHAHAHAHA! I can't wait…no more cheesy music, no more stupid backgrounds, are they words to express my joy?

**Dedicated:** To goldfishdemon, whose ass I have been kissing for days now. I hope you forgive my momentary loss of common sense…Physics what can I say.


	7. Chapter 7

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

Chapter Seven

* * *

_You_, my dear boy, _are an ass_. Blunt words that rang with a rather familiar tune at the back of his mind could not be ignored. For the ironic truth that they held, seemed destined to be his undoing. After all of _that_, that pacing, that time spent creating the conclusion that she was bloody poison and she should be avoided as such – he had actually sought her out—only to kiss her…

Again.

Was there any use in continuing to utilize the excuse of stupidity? He imagined that even the chronically foolish learnt from their mistakes. And it was now evident that his level of ignorance had surpassed even theirs.

_Why had he looked for her?_

Oh yes: to _apologize_. How chivalrous. How noble…how pathetic that he would still continue to exploit this excuse even after it's believability was been destroyed. There had been only one reason that he had come seeking her, it was the same reason that he hadn't been able to get her out of his head since last night. And that was a reason that he had chosen not to examine too closely.

No, he would prefer to blame it all on folly. It wasn't as though no one would believe his answer. Why, even now he continued to show his ridiculous state of mind.

For after embarrassing himself, after watching as that red headed girl stared at him with an obscene amount of disgust written clearly on her face …he had remained in the library and then watched as she continued to stare at him as though he was some horrible creature creeping along the floor.

Currently however, even looking at him seemed to be too horrible for her, and she had taken to adjusting the books in the shelf behind her; refusing to even acknowledge his being there. A less than subtle indication, Caleb thought grimly, that he should leave.

He frowned at her narrow back as she glided across the library floor. As if he would actually grant her that satisfaction. He still had some pride left, and the great deal of pride that had been wounded demanded retribution.

So he would stay, regardless of how unintelligent it made him feel or look. He knew that his company annoyed her more than she would ever admit, and truthfully, she deserved every ounce of it. For confusing him, for bewitching him, for still not turning around so that he at least look at her face to determine where he stood.

'_Because that was the only reason that he would ever want to look at her again, purely tactical,' _He ranted inwardly to an unbelieving conscience. _'I've done more than enough by looking for any other reason.'_ He had the plan to remember, the safety of that young girl, and those who would undoubtedly come into danger if that madman wasn't stopped.

The plan was ridiculous enough without her complicating his mind. Yes, just ignore her.

* * *

Yet, he remained in the library; seated with an artificial sort of casual nonchalance across the old wooden table as he stole occasional glances of her from the corner of his eye, all the while becoming more and more annoyed by her resolve.

_Clunk, clunk, CLUNK_. Those books that she was adjusting kept an unusual amount of noise as she shoved them along the shelves. Why couldn't she just run away, like she had done last night? Obviously she was still too damned stubborn for her own benefit or perhaps – she was also trying to avenge her injured pride.

Yes, that was it the reason that she wasn't running; whosoever left first would take the blame for what had just happened. Well, good, now he had a descent reason for staying.

Something within his mind told him that this wasn't ignoring her, but he pushed the thought aside. He would break her.

He would win.

He leaned further back into his feigned casual pose, blatantly staring at her now, concentrating on the exposed skin of her neck (for solely strategic motives) praying to any heavenly entity that would hear him that she would resort to her second favorite emotion (anger), scream at him, and then leave.

He had imagined his prayers answered when, slowly, unbelievably, she turned to face him. She stared awkwardly at a spot above his head for a moment, before sighing and forcing her gaze to meet his. He swallowed the surprising sensation that had temporarily lodged itself in his throat at the feel of her intense gaze on his face.

An apology would be perfect. He found himself thinking as the girl before him whispered to herself in evident deliberation. Some tears would be thrown in for dramatic effect he concluded and she would fall to her knees sobbing: _"I'm sorry for bewitching you, confusing you and for being so stubborn and proud."_ A smug smile played across his face. Yes, that would be…

"Why did you kiss me?" the question sounded more frustrated than curious coming from her mouth. It traveled through the room, amplified, in Caleb's mind by the cobwebs and dust.

Well what the hell was that? He had thought that they had both chosen to ignore the fact that they had shared in any form of intimacy. She folded her arms across her chest and tilted her head, a sign of impatience, a sign that she thought that she had the upper hand in this situation and that he should realize her superiority…

His mind began to race, tugging his heart along with it for the ride.

_Justgive her an answer._

The smile vanished from his face, and all of the casualness evaporated from his posture. He suspected that she wanted a _truthful_ answer. And the truth was simple – he didn't know.

But, by God, he'd be damned if he allowed her to witness his uncertainty.

"It's rather simple," he began, cutting her off before she could utter the word _twice_. "You're a _girl_ and I'm a _boy…_" He crossed his own arms and tilted his head, just to show her what he thought of her superiority. "Last night, I had _an itch_ and well…" he paused to admire her reaction before finishing quickly, "They teach you lot the rest of this in finishing school, I would imagine."

He glanced at her with mounting trepidation as several emotions made their way across her expressive face. First, there had been the moment when her perfect mouth had slipped open in outrage – that hadn't lasted long as she had soon realized that _he _of all people should _never _see her surprised, so then she had moved into fury, now _that_ she didn't seem too concerned about hiding.

Her eyes narrowed at him, and a redness began to color her cheeks. For the first time he noticed the leather bound novels in her hands. There was no doubt in his mind that she would take to throwing them if she was allowed to come close enough. And he knew that they would make dangerous projectiles.

* * *

Just as he was beginning to create a plan of self defense, she stilled, and the anger on her face faded with the same suddenness that it had arrived with. She expelled a dry breath and looked at him again, this time with her head held upright and her arms at her side. The two books fell from her hands with a single heavy _thud_.

But he wasn't finished yet, in fact now the danger of a concussion seemed to have bypassed him, he added. "And just now, well that was just to prove a point."

By the time that he had finished, her lips had become twisted into a mirthless smile. "But of course." She muttered in a voice that sounded both indifferent and strained. It was a tone that made him wish that she were angry again.

She whirled her body around and prepared to leave. _'So, this was it,'_ he realized; he had won. He had broken her. It was odd how the success tasted so chalky in his mouth.

"Look, Will –" his bleeding pride forgotten, he rose to his feet to follow her.

"Don't call me that!" she halted her retreat, the anger that he had become so familiar with mounted alarmingly until he could sense it, being expelled from her so rapidly that in mere seconds it seemed to have filled every crevice in the room. "Only people I _like_ can call me that." Her shoulders straightened before she quickly added, in a tone that ruined the entire effect, "And my family."

He had the sudden urge to hold her, to wrap his arms around her small body and to allow himself to drown in the spicy scent that was so uniquely hers, as he would attempt to take back all that had already been said. There was no doubt in his mind however, that if he tried she would find some way to attack him.

So he stood there instead; stupidly, he imagined. And watched her, with both pity and amazement as she rearranged the layers beneath her stony façade before turning to face him finally with a look that managed to convince him, despite everything that he had just seen, that his words hadn't troubled her in the least.

Her arms crossed, her fiery red hair tousled across her forehead and her eyes smoldering with repressed defiance, she had never looked more beautiful in his eyes. Something heavy fell through the pit of his stomach and that _thing_, that _reason_ for all of this, seemed to expand significantly inside of him, until he could feel it, choking him, draining him of all logic…

He felt sick.

He wouldn't apologize; to do that would be to insult her. He saw that now…the only way to ensure that she would feel any better about this situation was to play along with her little façade.

"Well then," the words seemed strangled somehow, caught in his throat, "May I just ask you – why you didn't tell your mother about…"

She refused to let him finish, instead she began her impudent response quickly and loudly. "Perhaps I should have, certainly it would have gotten your ass out of my house." She grinned.

He lowered his head, the less than pleasant commotion in his chest rising to overwhelming heights once more.

"Oh, please don't be bashful Mister Olsen," she clicked her tongue. "It doesn't suit you; in fact I'm sure that your itch would be rather displeased with this sudden change of countenance."

_Mister Olsen_. Right. He needed to remember that. He sighed and forced a hand through the side of his rumpled hair. It had been such a tiring day, and it wasn't even noon yet. She watched him for a while, before growing either bored or displeased and returning to the bookshelf.

_Clunk, Clunk, CLUNK._

She was ignoring him again. Not that he could blame her this time; in fact he half wished that he could disregard himself as he maneuvered his way through the discarded books and ladders.

Long banished was the pride that had kept him grounded before, in fact, leaving the library he felt remarkably different than he had felt when coming in. Strange, he mused; that his epiphany seemed to have stemmed from that little red headed girl who had managed to convince everyone around her that she was stronger than she really was.

* * *

"But – honestly _Corny_, he said that he'd be right down," Irma tried to reach for her sister's hand, but as on the previous five attempts, she failed as the older girl yanked the limb away. Suppressing a groan and repressing the urge to collapse, Irma followed Cornelia, hoping that she would give up searching for her missing fiancé.

Because heavens knew that it hadn't been easy to make him _missing_ in the first place. First, there had been the small matter of prying him from the deathly grip of her mother, an event that had led to her giving the poor man a thoroughly exaggerated tour of the house with a very dramatic stop at Will's room, where Irma had gone through a wonderful description of the view from her window.

All thoughts of views were forgotten however when it became obvious that her _other_ sister, had lied about going to her bedroom. And so the search began with her tugging him through each room in the house, failing miserably to come up with new excuses as to why she was doing it.

Things had pleasantly improved however, when Caleb had actually asked where Will was. Oh, it had been perfect! He mentioned something irrelevant about them not getting off on the right foot, but by then it hadn't mattered. For Irma had finally realized where her missing sibling could be.

In the Library.

She was obviously hiding, and where better to hide than in there? After all, who would want to go down into that dark moss infested chamber?

Certainly not her; even with all of her meddling ways – so she had sent Caleb along the rickety old staircase by himself and had posted herself as a watch at the end of the corridor.

Of course things had started off incredibly well. Mister Olsen hadn't reemerged from the dark room after an half an hour…and curiosity, quite honestly, kept plaguing the back of the brunette's mind.

She had been going to check in on them, only to _peek_; before Cornelia had decided to make her grand entrance. Her first reaction to her sister's appearance had been shock – _there_ _was no way that that was considered as looking natural!_

Her second had been panic, as Cornelia had promptly narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms before asking in a tone that demanded an answer the location of her fiancé.

Irma had managed to keep a cool head, and to begin a long show of ignorance. "Why, have you misplaced him Cornelia – how terribly unfortunate, you know _I_ could have kept him safe for you."

Cornelia had started forward then, her long arms outstretched in a manner that led Irma to believe that she meant to strangle her. "Mother said that you took him on a tour of the house – _now where is he_?"

"Er…in the attic." She blurted out the first place that came to mind, her own place of refuge.

Cornelia, of course didn't bite, for all of her haughty little ways, she certainly wasn't stupid. "I said _where_ Irma, because if you think that I'll let you disgrace this family's name anymore then you already have, then you're in for a rude awakening –"

It is always funny to receive threats from someone who is by all estimates, smaller than you are. And Irma doubted that Cornelia would win if the situation came to blows, or that she would willingly fight her if it did. But to avoid a conflict that she would undoubtedly get blamed for in the end, Irma uttered a strained, perfectly unwilling; "I don't know Cornelia, but he said that he'd be down any minute."

Cornelia seemed to believe her, but was still reluctant to wait. "What's behind you?" she asked suddenly. "The library," Irma began, and then added to halt her sister who had began to walk towards the door, "But goodness, how it smells – I think that I've found where Jeffery urinates when he's drunk."

Cornelia backed away in visible disgust. But still, she refused to remain silent, and after another ten minutes of waiting, she took off to the second floor with Irma on her heels, searching for Mister Olsen.

Which, of course was what had led to the present situation.

By now, she was absolutely murderous. "Where is he?" she hissed suddenly, whipping around and grabbing the younger girl's shoulders in her thin hands. "You said that he was coming down, well, coming down from where?"

"I told you the _attic_." Irma managed to gasp clutching a pain in her side, God's _teeth_; she was fast…considering that she never seemed to move.

"I don't believe you." Cornelia challenged. "Why would he go to the attic, when there is nothing up there!"

"Well, maybe he went to get away from you," Irma hinted with a mischievous gleam in her eye. One that Cornelia noticed almost immediately.

"He's in the library isn't he?" it wasn't a question, and before Irma could formulate and answer, the blonde was already thundering down the stairs, her satin slippers slapping against the wood as she went.

Irma swallowed a curse and followed. "No, Cornelia, he really isn't…" She had hitched up her skirts by now and had started running. The thought of what would happen to Will if Cornelia found her in a dark room with her soon to be husband was less than appealing. Their mother would kill her, and then she'd turn on Irma, because, well she had been looking for a reason to do so for the last few days. Oh, she wouldn't get to go to the ball!

This hadn't happened in _Sir Edmund's Betrayal, _she thought wearily. "Cornelia, do you remember that blue evening gown that you loved so much, the one that made you look like Queen Victoria, well I threw it in the pond, and those slippers with the gold stitching, I buried those outside next to your silver looking glass and…"

Her confession was cut short when Cornelia, oblivious to her sister's admittance to her various sins, stopped suddenly. "Oh, there you are," her voice, drowning in honey, swept over Irma's head. "I was looking for you."

Breathless, Irma wandered over to the pair of them on her shaky legs and glanced behind Mister Olsen. _Where was Will?_ She looked at him through the curls that had tumbled from the knot she had tied them in this morning, looking for an answer.

He didn't seem to have one. "We are to have a picnic outside," Cornelia continued, now reaching for his arm, "Mother has suggested it and I cannot bear to resist her wishes."

"Mister Olsen," Irma gasped, still stinging all over from the lack of air and the excessive exercise, "Did you find what you were looking for?" she managed.

He looked at her blankly for a second, before answering, "Yes, I did actually."

Cornelia's steely blue gaze moved from her sister to her fiancé before resting somewhere in between. "Come now, Mister Olsen." She grabbed his arm in both of hers and pulled him along, "We've wasted enough of this day."

Irma watched them go, too tired and frustrated to follow. Well, that had been completely uninformative. She frowned; all of that running around would not be for nothing, she promised.

One did not spend nearly an hour in a dark room with a member of the opposite sex only to emerge, perfectly composed! Never, not in any romance novel that she had ever poured over!

Or Will could have just been being Will again.

It was true; none of the heroines that had been brought to life on those pages had ever been like her sister.

Irma groaned, really, the girl was impossible, she would never get married this way! _What about there being more important things than marriage Irma._ Her conscience mocked, and she chose to ignore it. Well, obviously there were more important things, hadn't she proven that by writing that letter?

Wasn't she still proving it by doing this? Will _needed_ to leave this house, being here was killing her. Irma had watched, for years now as Will's personality had deteriorated into nothingness. And if marriage was the only way out, then so be it. She just obviously needed a little shove in the right direction, or more accurately a huge push.

She would thank her later when she was far, far away. She was certain of it. Besides she fancied Caleb that was clear. And she deserved him far more than Cornelia did, even if their mother couldn't see that; she told the guilt that was quickly forming at the back of her mind.

"You are doing the right thing Irma." She whispered to herself, before commanding her legs to move towards the Library.

* * *

'_Well,'_ thought Cornelia as she began the less than pleasurable walk across the gardens, _'at least the weather has cleared up.'_

That was true, for when she had looked out the window earlier this morning; she had thought that she would drown in the downpour that had been hovering outside. Now, she saw that she was wrong, for God obviously intended that she should bake in the sun instead.

The parasol for all of her mother's doting, was utterly useless in the Virginia climate – and Oh heaven have mercy – was that a _bee_?

She cringed. What was her mother's obsession with the outdoors anyway? Certainly men didn't really enjoy all of these picnics and walks. Well, perhaps at their house in…wherever he was from…she could have large roofs constructed, all over the gardens, so that the sun would never have to touch her skin again.

"Oh for pity's sake Emily," Cornelia scolded the young girl who was carrying the wicker basket, "Don't jump about so, you might drop the basket."

She frowned at the other girl who had the blanket folded in her arms, she couldn't find anything to criticize about that and hence, no one else to take her bad mood out on. So she concentrated instead on the picture of her future house, where she would defiantly hire better servants that these.

Caleb was extraordinarily silent for the duration of the walk. His dark green eyes seemed clouded with some unmentionable thought as Cornelia pulled him along next to her. Maybe he too was concentrating on the thoughts of their future…no, that couldn't be it, if that were the case then he certainly wouldn't appear so gloomy.

_So_, Irma must have done something to him. It was the only other clear conclusion. That little – oh she could already see it, how she had lured him into her bedroom, wait no, the thought faded away…Irma hadn't been anywhere near him. So then what could it be?

No sense wondering, she decided as the two girls began to set up the picnic…on the _grass_. No, surely they couldn't intend for them to eat on the grass…not when they were tables over there.

She opened her lips to question this absurd decision before clamping them shut almost immediately after. Her mother, brandishing a pair of clippers pranced past them both. "Oh Cornelia," she began pointedly, "The day is so lovely that I thought that I would come outside and do a bit of gardening. I know how you love to accompany me on these trips, but really, sit and enjoy your picnic."

"But –" the blonde began to protest.

"I said to _sit_!" she nearly hissed, her dark eyes now burned with something far more threatening than the ants and bees that Cornelia feared.

Cornelia nodded and untangled her arm from Mister Olsen, who paused strangely, before helping her to the ground. "Good girl!" he mother applauded, before turning her attention to the hedges across the walkway, "I'll be over there…near those…er…those pink flowers." She hurried away, but not before catching Cornelia's eye and giving her a very noteworthy look.

Caleb sat in the space across from her soon after, but not before saying something to Emily, something that made the young girl blush furiously before giggling.

Cornelia frowned; there would be none of _that _either when they returned home.

"I do so love picnics." She smiled, hoping that words sounded far more sincere to him than they did to her.

He nodded briefly, but didn't reply. "So where were you before?" she questioned suddenly, mentally reprimanding herself for being so blunt.

"In the Library," he replied, but he still appeared distracted. Really, Irma's face paraded through her mind, muttering the word _attic_, over and over. Cornelia found herself wondering if this all had something to do with their last encounter, when she had attacked him with a parasol.

Had he run to her over endowed sister for comfort after thinking that she was uninterested?

She shouldn't jump to conclusions, Cornelia decided, no; although Irma may be _that way_…she doubted that Caleb was. Although, she wouldn't apologize for her behavior either, well, not _yet_ at least. There was still much more that she wanted to know about his behavior as well as Irma's, and somehow, she knew that they were linked.

"What were you doing in there?" she pressed.

"What do you do in a Library?" there was an undercurrent of sarcasm in his words, it aggravated her, that he thought her so foolish. But she let it pass, that glare her mother had sent her way still chilled her bones.

She didn't fell much like talking to him anymore, and felt even less eager about making an apology. So she instead decided to pour herself some tea and try to numb her mind to the fact that her legs, presently curled underneath her, were falling asleep.

It was he who broke the silence that she had inflicted. "Your mother seems very enthusiastic about our…wedding."

There was something about the way he said it, something that told her that he didn't share in the excitement. She felt her back stiffen, well she certainly couldn't be blamed for him feeling _bored _about the nuptials.

She had sacrificed more than enough trying to please him. And now he was actually unsatisfied. There was no doubt now that had a hand in this! She had _always_ been opposed to her getting married first. When she found her Cornelia swore to herself she would pay for her meddling.

She had never met any man who hadn't been immediately interested in pleasing her, and now to think that the only man who was supposed to be…wasn't.

She clicked her tongue, wondering if it could be possible that Irma hadn't told him anything, what if he was, she swallowed a mouthful of the bitter tea, genuinely uninterested. Even before Irma had gotten him alone on her little tour he had never seemed to care that much about her. In fact, she frowned unintentionally tightening her grip on the tea cup, he had once chosen to play around in the barn than spend time with her, he had gone away on a mysterious journey for an entire day rather than come on this picnic with her. And now that he was here, he claimed to be bored.

"Of course," Cornelia managed to speak over the anger now burning her tongue, "It is natural for a woman to feel interested about her wedding, in fact, some men might even share that interest occasionally."

She hoped he picked up on her point.

He looked away from her burning gaze, so apparently he had; well she prayed that it was guilt now clouding his eyes – those gorgeous eyes.

"Your sister gave me a tour of the house this morning." He picked at the cloth beneath them, unaware of the fact that his companion was currently choking on her tea.

He wasn't serious, how could still mention _her_, when he was supposed to be focusing on…oh that was it wasn't it, he was thinking about Irma. Her initial thought sprang back to mind, the thought of her sister leading him into her chambers…she snorted into the cup in a very unladylike manner. She honestly didn't care anymore; soon he would start mentioning Will!

If her mother hadn't been so close by she would have stormed off.

"The paintings in the parlor," he continued, although now fixing his gaze atop of her face, she briefly felt her anger subside, even if the sensation was fleeting. "There is one of a man who resembles you…one with long blonde hair."

Oh, so he had thought of her! The whisper of anger vanished entirely now and her face softened to welcome his gaze with a smile. "Oh no, the man you mean is my mother's last husband, Count Phobos."

"Husband?" his face wrinkled in surprise, she noticed that he had the most adorable dimple in his forehead when he did. "But he seemed so young."

"Oh he was," Cornelia placed her teacup alongside her flattened palm and went on, "He was only a few years older than Will and me."

"Is that why they are no longer together, because of that age difference – the immaturity?"

She shook her head. "Goodness no, he wasn't immature but he was so sullen, he never talked, well," she took a deep breath, trying to remember, "Not really."

"I don't really know why he left, he just did," she clasped her gloved hands in her lap, trying to overlook the fact that they were clammy with sweat, "One morning we awoke and he was gone – Mother took it very badly." Her voice stilled in her throat. "I'm sorry, Mister Olsen," she felt her cheeks redden, "I'm not usually such a gossip."

"By all means Cornelia," her stomach fluttered at the way his lips looked as they moved over her name, "Go on, I can see that this entire situation has been bothering you."

Well, it hadn't actually, but she felt no burning need to mention that to him, she was enjoying the attention that he had finally decided to give her far too much. "Well we haven't heard from him since, not a word – sometimes I worry that something might have happened to him." She sighed, "He was always so kind to me, but Will thinks that he just went home to Greece, she never knew him at all."

He was quiet for a while after that, now she looked upon his silence with new eyes. He wasn't ignoring her, rather, he was thinking about new ways to entertain her with conversation. The poor man was probably just shy.

"Why do you call your sister Will?" he asked finally, although this time he didn't look at her.

She ignored it, again passing off his odd behavior as bashfulness. "Oh," Cornelia laughed shortly at the memory, "When she as younger she couldn't spell Wilhelmina, so the governess had her write Will instead, and when she grew older she would just behave as a boy would, so we just continued to call her that."

He didn't laugh with her, she couldn't blame him, Will was seldom ever an interesting topic. "Why do you ask?"

"I thought that it was an odd name for a girl, that's all."

"Oh." She nodded. "Did I tell you my love of fishing?"

* * *

_Will_, Irma decided was being even more uninformative than Mister Olsen had been, if that were possible. The oldest sister had developed a particularly annoying habit recently of ignoring a person completely when she didn't want to be bothered, a habit, as you can imagine, that made it increasingly difficult for Irma to pry anything interesting from her lips. And on this occasion, any delicious details of dark and sordid Library exploits.

She had questioned her incessantly for the last quarter of an hour, only to be met, each time by either a distracted grunt or an expressionless stare.

Now, Irma had all but given up. Sometimes she could be so ungrateful. The brunette sighed, preparing to return to the Study where she knew that her mother must be angrily awaiting her return to help plan that damned wedding. She frowned, feeling the same twinge of guilt from before, if her mother were to ever find out about any of this, she was certain that…

"Irma?" a voice shocked her back to her surroundings – her musky, damp surroundings that Irma suddenly looked at with a new appreciation. So she was finally going to talk.

"Yes, Will." She answered, trying and failing to keep the excitement in her voice concealed.

"I was just wondering…" her voice trailed away, and Irma watched as she raised an awkward hand to her hair.

"Yes…" Irma prodded. _Go on; tell me about how he professed his undying love for you…_

Her hand fell limply to her side and she shook her head. "No, never mind…it's silly,"

"Oh no, Will," Irma practically flew to her sister's side, propelled by the wings of curiosity, "You mustn't say that – nothing is too silly."

Will threw her a dubious look, one that Irma repelled with a shrug. Her dark eyes rolled around in her head before coming to linger on the floor. "Do you think that…I'm _pretty_?"

The silence following the statement must have been uncomfortable Irma realized, but currently, she was far too taken aback to try to rectify the situation. Will immediately tried to take back her words, but it was too late, Irma had already heard.

How terrible it was that the thoughts thundering within her mind were nothing like the ones Will expected.

_Pretty._ What did she mean by that? Certainly this wasn't a question asked after such a lengthy time spent with an Adonis in the Library. Ugh. Reality was so confusing. Never one to hide her intentions Irma blurted out something very similar to just that.

"What do you mean by that?" she questioned, roughly grabbing her sister's arms. "Who told that that you weren't pretty – was it Caleb?"

_Sweet Napoleon_, now she had done it. It took a little over half of a second for Will to piece together a question. "How did you know that he was down here?" her eyes narrowed suspiciously, darting from the floor to Irma's face in record speed, trapping the latter's gaze in her own.

"Well…I…" she stammered, releasing the grip on Will's shoulders so that she could back away.

"You sent him down here didn't you!"

Irma could see now that it had been wrong to worry about her mother's reaction, when truthfully it was Will's that would be worse.

"Will, just listen to me." She pressed her back against the bookshelf that prevented her from moving any further, "I know what this must look like – _believe me_, I know, but…"

"You have no idea what you've done!" she practically hissed.

Even through the panic, Irma saw an opening to find out more, "You're right, maybe you could explain it to me…"

That didn't work. "You and your meddling – when are you going to learn that life is nothing like your little fantasy world!" it was only now that Irma realized that her sister had never tried to pursue her, so she moved forward. "There are no happy endings and rogue knights who will come gallivanting in to save you…there's just this!" she indicated the dusty bookshelves.

Obviously, Will had lost her mind. "Will, there is more to life than bookshelves." She nodded earnestly, oblivious to the fact that she had entirely missed the point. The redhead still managed to crack at smile at her ignorance, despite her anger.

"Really Will, can you forgive me?" Irma took another tentative step towards the fuming girl, "I thought that you fancied him and that –"

"I don't." Will stated loudly and plainly, so that there was no question to her sincerity. "I hate him."

Irma fell silent. The single question buzzing through her mind begged to be uttered. "Why?" she yielded to the pressure, searching her sister's face where she imagined she would more likely find the answer.

She would be disappointed however, because Will's face presently resembled an iron mask. She shook her head but gave no answer. "We have a wedding to plan don't we?" And before Irma could prepare another question she had darted out of the room, taking the stairs two at a time.

Irma followed her silently, feeling more confused about this entire situation than ever, and of course far more interested in it as well.

* * *

**Author:** Matchmaking Irma versus matchmaking Susan, I wonder who will win?

Which brings me to my next point, I don't get the idea that some of you realize that Caleb will never marry Cornelia. Remember, he's **PRETENDING** so that he can spy on her family in order to find Phobos. The conflict here is not whether or not he chooses Will over Cornelia, it's Will's reaction should she ever find out who he really is.

Other than that, I think you're pretty good. It's summer now, so more updating time for this story. I am seriously going to try to get a chapter a week for as long as that's possible. So that hopefully this can get finished by September. I won't have any time to write next year (senior year) if my teachers have anything to do about it.

That's it. Thanks for the reviews and such; you are honestly the sweetest lot!

And to Ruberta, thanks for the link. Hahaha. It was a funny video. And there is absolutely no need to worry about me jumping ship after the Will and Caleb ship continues to plunge to its demise in the sea of canon. Remember, before I came aboard I was a member of the woefully proof less coupling of Phobos and Will. Sigh.

I write for my readers, and as long as they enjoy my ranting, then I'll keep writing.

**Dedicated:** To the lovely Lys. Who drew the most fantastic picture of Will in her pink dress from chapter three (I think/she said). I don't really know if I have permission to show it off, but if she allows me I'll post the link come next chapter.

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

Chapter Eight

* * *

_Three nights_; how ridiculous it seemed, to him at least, that still, after three nights of tossings and turnings, three nights of cursing the mattress to hell and back again, three nights of swearing that this would pass by tomorrow—that he was still lying awake on the same too-soft mattress surrounded by the same stifling number of pillows and comforters, still utterly unhappy with himself and to a lesser extent that girl…who, you should all know was the reason for his sleeplessness.

You see, somewhere between his decision to burn the damn mattress and his impulse to shred it to bits, it had dawned on him. Oh no, the mattress wasn't to be blamed, of course not, it was the sheets!

The sheets you ask, why yes the sheets, or more precisely the way the sheets smelled. Like her, it was unmistakable, it was overwhelming, the cologne seemed embedded into each thread add that to the uncanny feelings of guilt that he had been experiencing, and hell, it was no wonder that he hadn't been able to get more than two hours of sleep for the past three nights.

But how could these sheets possibly smell like her? He almost laughed; he was probably imagining it all. He would no longer try to deny his—_attraction _to her, perhaps his wishful thinking was finally leading to hallucinations. Maybe he should leave this bed now, before the fantasies rolling around in his mind (the ones of her lying beneath him) came to life as well.

He was a grown man after all! Even if he was one that was pathetically obsessed with a girl who, by all appearances hated him (he had made sure of that), oh yes and who also believed that he was going to marry her sister, and of course who thought that he was someone else.

Why was this bothering him so much?

I_t's a job Caleb, just get it done._ There were rules to this he remembered, never get emotionally involved ranked high on that list, if he were to be asked tomorrow to kill them for any reason, then he should be able to do it. He tossed some pillows aside and sat up in the bed, covering his eyes with the backs of his hands.

Ah, what a life he had chosen for himself. What his mother would say to this…

…she would tell him to come back home, he knew.

The throbbing emanating from his temples intensified. He needed to get some sleep, his judgment was fragile enough without him running on an hour of sleep, the night winds felt icy when they caressed his face, only increasing the sensation of discomfort that he was experiencing.

He hadn't thought of his home in years. There had been no reason to, he was never going back and he doubted that he ever could even if he wanted to, well not without the familiar lectures of disgrace and dishonor…

It was no use, his head was gone—the sooner that this post was abandoned, the sooner hat his logic would come streaming back to him— and God, how he longed for that day.

He needed to get away, to get out that was obvious; this place was hazardous to his state of mind…

_Still running away Caleb?_

Oh, shut up! The bed groaned angrily under his weight when he stood up, stretching his arms above his head as he did so. Sleep, he decided, was a bad job for the night.

_Thud_. Caleb's head whipped around to face the flowery curtains that were waving hauntingly due to the strokes of the breeze. _Thud_.

It was unmistakable, someone was scaling the wall; nosily. _Thud_. Was it Phobos? He couldn't rule the possibility out. But why would he come in here? _Thud._ Without his gaze leaving the window, Caleb's hand moved towards the trunk at the bottom of the bed, blindly seeking out some sort of weapon…

The brim of a very wide hat emerged from the darkness first, temporarily drenching the room in complete darkness before a body crept forward.

"Bloody hell," the voice whispered—a very familiar voice.

His outstretched hand fell limply to his side at the realization. "Taranee?" he sputtered, "What the hell are you doing here?"

His voice seemed to surprise the intruder, because she immediately collapsed in an untidy heap at the base of the window. "Oh what the hell do you think?" she growled after she had readjusted herself. "I came to see you."

"How did you find me?" Suddenly aware of his decision to lure sleep by removing his shirt, he awkwardly covered his chest with his hands.

"That's a funny story actually." She removed her hat and brushed a hand through the short ends of her hair. "There are no guards here—have you realized? I was caught by a stable boy lurking about the barn and before I could even think of an excuse he asked me who I was looking for." She shook her head in bewilderment. "Terrible really, I told him you, just blurted it out, and he actually offered to go fetch the keys for the cottage, I took off up through the window instead, I didn't want him to call anyone who might have a smidgen more sense that he did."

"That was careless." Caleb stated.

"I know, but it couldn't be helped," she sighed. "In any case I think that he was drunk, God willing he won't remember anything about this tomorrow."

"All of this just to see me?" Caleb mimicked her pose of nonchalance—leaning heavily against the stone wall.

"It's Dublin." She shook her head. "He's gotten worse, he won't stop breathing down my neck—you see they've found his daughter."

It was as though his body had been submerged in a barrel of liquid relief. "Are you serious? Well then that means that I can leave, right?"

"You don't understand," her gaze traveled to the pale moon hovering solemnly outside the window, "They found her _body_—it was disgusting, about a mile from the family's home, stark naked, the bastard shaved her head."

A low whistle escaped his parted lips. "So…Dublin is—"

"Worse than ever!" She interrupted and then began to pace as the words flew from her mouth. "He's a maniac! He keeps questioning me on why Phobos hasn't been found yet, as though it's my fault that he let him get this deep into his games!"

"So you've got nothing on Phobos?"

"Nothing—we saw some tracks; carriage," she paused to run her fingers thoughtfully along the brim of her hat, "but the damned rain—we couldn't follow them."

"It does seem that where ever he is, it's somewhere out of town…because of the way Dublin's daughter looked I can say that he killed her nearby, she couldn't have been dead for more than a few days, he couldn't have made the journey from somewhere far away and have the body looking like that."

Silence followed, it was eerie sort of silence, morbid even as they both realized the disturbing reasoning that their minds worked with—that Phobos' mind worked with.

"So you've got nothing else on Phobos?" Taranee questioned finally.

"No," his brow furrowed as he remembered Cornelia's words, "just that he isn't an avid writer. I don't think that they know anything—at least not the daughters—their mother now, well I can't really think of how I'll get anything out of her about this."

"You're certain?"

"I've only been able to question my _fiancé_," he watched as Taranee rolled her eyes. "But I have an idea on what to do about the youngest…and the eldest," his stomach clenched at the thought, "I'd rather not."

"You don't need to worry about the youngest girl," Taranee turned to face him. "On my way here I managed to intercept some of their mail…the youngest girl…Irma, right? She wrote a letter to one of her friends inviting her to a ball. She doesn't have a clear thought in her head, it was four pages of her rambling on and on about Connecticut, asking if she knew a girl who lived there and about her sister's wedding; apparently those two aren't very close, I think that she wants to sabotage it."

He bit back a laugh, "There is no wedding; she's wasting her time."

"She doesn't know that. And regardless of what you'd _rather do_, the eldest girl might know something and we can't afford to just ignore her."

"Believe me, I'm not ignoring her." He muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing—so what about the mother?"

"That's why I decided to come here; the mother wrote a letter as well, she's invited everyone on the continent to this wedding." She sighed, "It's almost hilarious she can't possibly know all of these people."

"Wait," a most disturbing thought entered Caleb's mind. "If all of these people are coming—isn't it possible that one of them may know who this Olsen character is?"

"Oh it's very possible." Taranee stated. "Which is why, had I been the one who'd created this ridiculous plan, I would have created a false character for you to pretend to be—Dublin is a jackass, using his friends from the North names like this, even if they agreed. We'll just have to hope that we'll be long gone before they arrive."

"What else did she say?"

"Oh, it was just a lot of names, she said that she'd be sending the other formal invitations soon, but," she paused dramatically, "she did request an organizer for the wedding—which of course, would be me."

"You're not serious—what do you know about weddings?"

"I imagine a great deal more than you!" Taranee snapped. "And anyway, what is there to know? A man, a woman, a dress, a cake."

"I don't think that you understand just how fanatical this woman is."

"I've got a good idea, never you mind." Her gaze returned to the midnight blue sky. "And this will be how I'll manage to question her."

"Please tell me you'll organize a kidnapping."

"Of course not," she frowned, "you're always saying that we women don't ever stop talking—imagine if _two_ of us got together, the things we might say."

He didn't waste any more time fighting Taranee's decision; actually, he was glad for her presence. And that was for a reason that had nothing to do with Phobos. Her company just might become the much needed dose of reality that he was currently craving.

Hopefully.

* * *

The morning brought with it the accustomed hopes for a new day; the hope for happiness and new beginnings. Hopes, which in all actuality would be revealed as lies by noon—however, in the case of Will, these promises had already proved themselves to be untrue by ten o'clock.

"You know," Irma peered over the crooked stack of envelopes, "I don't believe that you hate Mister Olsen at all."

Her puffy eyed, frizzy haired sister, who in all honesty didn't seem to have the energy to fight the statement nor to deny it, just groaned from her perch atop of her hand.

"You see," Irma grinned, "you also said that he was ugly and rude, and I have found him to be neither."

"Stop talking…Irma." Will whispered. "I have a headache."

"Oh ho! I'll bet that you do!" The brunette crammed another invitation into the tiny envelope, in her haste smearing the ink. "You're in love my dear—you haven't been sleeping, you haven't tried to run off in days, and you've even stopped fighting with mother! Love, love, love!"

"I am not in love!" Will yawned. "Especially not with him—he is…well I can't think of what he is right now…oh yes, you know I can, he is my sister's husband."

"Have you seen the bishop?"

"Have you seen the look on our mother's face if you dare mention that this wedding might not happen? Now look, less talking and more writing—" she forced her eyelids open and squinted at the messy list of names that her mother had frantically shoved into her hands this morning. "We have an Aunt named Eustachia—did you know?"

"I can't believe you!" Irma jumped to her feet. "What are you so afraid of…being happy?"

"What are you talking about?" Will cocked her head at her sister. "And stop shouting before someone hears you!"

"Mother won't be able to stand in the way of true love!"

"I'm not in love—stop saying that or Irma I swear to God—"

"You're the first born, that practically justifies the relationship and when I get done with this…"

"You said that you'd stop!" Will walked over to her sister, intending to beat some sense into her. "Remember yesterday—we had this conversation."

"I don't remember saying anything about stopping."

Now that Will racked her mind, she couldn't either. "Why are you doing this?" she bowed her head in retreat. "Why?"

"Because if I don't then you won't…and I won't let you live your life with all of these regrets."

"But I don't…" she sighed. "You don't understand anything about this—"

Irma brushed a stray lock of unruly hair from Will's face, "Then explain it to me." She cooed, barely able to conceal her own over enthusiastic grin.

"He…" the sound was barely audible, and Irma practically jumped closer to listen. "Yes." The brunette pried gently, "He what?"

"He has insulted me and taken advantage of me and I hate him!"

A nagging voice of disappointment told Irma that that hadn't been what she was originally going to say. "How did he take advantage of you?"

"Never you mind that." Will started pacing, a popular hobby of hers as of late. "I hate feeling like this—"

"Like what…confused, impassioned?" Her eyes followed her sister's frantic movements across the room. To think that all of her efforts yesterday had been for naught and she didn't even know why!

"No—_restless_." She halted suddenly. "Look at me; I'm sitting here writing invitations to Cornelia's stupid wedding to that oaf and, well I feel like having some fun."

"Whatever did you have in mind?" Irma asked hesitantly, "Jumping out of trees, prancing around in a storm—or my personal favorite being locked in a library with handsome lawyers."

"You are not well Irma."

"Well, obviously you feel restless because you are keeping all of those emotions of yours pent up inside of you—oh I know! You can be depressed like me, go ahead Will just lie down and pour out your heart and soul."

"I've got a better idea—I shall make my way down to the liquor cabinet and pour myself a brandy," Irma groaned, but Will ignored her. "Care to join me?"

"I don't drink—it clouds the senses and impairs the mind."

Will scrunched up her face in confusion. "Who told you that—the French?"

"Oh no," Irma flushed suddenly. "It was Phobos—oh you know when he was here—you never listened to anything that he said."

"I was locked up in that cottage outside, I couldn't _listen_ to anything." Will grumbled.

"And I don't recall you ever drinking either," Irma hurried to find some way to recover. "Mister Olsen must have really done a number on you if you've turned to the bottle!"

"Oh shut up," Will walked towards the door. "I'll have to hurry before Jeffery beats me to it." And she was gone.

Irma returned her attention to the piles of envelopes stacked before her. This, she already knew, wouldn't turn out well.

* * *

**Author:** I'm ALIVE! Sorry about the delay but I was…well I dunno what I was doing, but it wasn't writing this. And it's really short! Aw, my apologies but my brother is at home now and he's hogging the computer—I wish I had a laptop. So what if I did more updates with shorter chapters that would work out.

As for this week, I'll be really busy and won't get to write anything, so your next update is going to be near or on July 7th. (Runs and hides)

I'm getting a lot of comparisons with this fic and Pride And Prejudice which surprises me, since I've never read the book, and I only watched the movie because I LOVE Keira Knightley. Don't worry, no one in Pride And Prejudice got pissing drunk. Which is what will happen to Will in the next chapter. I'm really pleased with coming up with that idea.

http/i17. That's the link for the picture. Thanks CL!

Ah, Ruberta, never mind me. I'm very moody. I just did something really stupid and bought a KORN CD. I got really depressed that I hadn't killed off enough people in this story (yes, something is terribly wrong with me).

And of course I'll finish this story, and I'll give them the happy ending, I was always going to. I won't stop writing Will and Caleb, I'll just probably stick to one shots from now on though. I love you guys and you really do inspire me, and even if I have to haul my yellow arse to the computer to type this just because you guys want me to, then I will.

Wow, that was deep.

Reviews are appreciated.

**Dedicated:** To Ruberta, storyteller girl, Kitsune6 and Will4Caleb. I'll dedicate a chapter to all my reviewers eventually, but some of you will have to share.


	9. Chapter 9

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

Chapter Nine

* * *

At the very first sign of the pink blush that caked the cerulean morning sky, Taranee had leapt from the second story window of Caleb's cottage. It had been an ungraceful maneuver, despite all of her best efforts, and she had as a result soiled her trousers and shirt and placed a very conspicuous dent in the brim of her wide hat.

Caleb, to her uttermost disgust had been completely unhelpful to her afterwards, merely asking her in a dazed sort of voice if she had broken anything. The bastard hadn't even waited for an answer; she had known that from the recognizable sounds of his feet dragging against the wooden floors as he made his way towards his bed.

She had spent the next hour or so concocting a very (in her mind at least) pathetic story of bandits that had robbed her blind and murdered her horse; the next few hours had been spent hiding her black stallion within the heavy canopy of forest with all intention of retrieving it upon the morrow when this entire ordeal would most certainly be completed.

Finally, Taranee was able to make her way to the large brick house, muddied, drenched and entirely too petulant. Her mood had of course not improved after standing for at least fifteen minutes pounding on the oak door waiting for answer.

"Yes!" Taranee had already poised her hand, ready for the sixteenth minute when the door was pulled open to reveal an angry elderly man, dressed in what appeared to be a circus tent.

Words failed her, and she had to take great care to snap her mouth shut. Her disgust seemed to be shared if not intensified by the old man, who upon raking his gaze over her torn clothes and tangled, leaf ridden hair yelped like a startled child and slammed the door in her face.

"Gypsies!" she could hear the muffled yell that echoed throughout the halls of the house.

_Gypsies_…that was a new one…In a daze that undoubtedly stemmed from her own tiredness and frustration, Taranee eased open the varnished door and entered the remarkably high ceilinged foyer.

"Look—this is a mistake," she shouted to the empty room. "I'm not a gypsy; I'm actually here because—"

The eloquent response that she had planned in the wee hours of this morning died immediately on her tongue at the sight of the grown woman hurtling herself down the stairway, with the old man at her heels, one brandishing what appeared to be a crucifix and the other holding…a letter opener.

For a moment, Taranee wondered if she had been dreaming.

"Get thee hence you dirtied heathen!" the woman hissed from beneath a curtain of raven hair. "Oh Lord! She's on the antique!"

"Stay back miss!" the man proclaimed, "I shall protect you!" But even as he spoke he made no real effort to do any such thing.

"I should warn you gypsy—I have a husband who is lounging upstairs," her dark eyes narrowed in suspicion, "he is part Viking and over fifty stone and if you dare…"

"I'm here for the wedding," Taranee wearily back stepped until she met with the resistance of the wall. This _had_ to be some sort of dream…

The circus tent clad man looked at the woman next to him for a response. "You Spaniards will stop at nothing, will you!" she muttered dangerously and raised the letter opener higher into the air.

"You sent for a planner in a letter—I'm responding to your request!" Even through her panic, Taranee could still feel the shame of her situation—here she was pressed against a wall because of the threats of an old man with a wooden cross and a woman wearing a frilly navy gown.

_If her clan could see her now…_

"You—are…" the dark haired woman's hand slowly lowered and after a moment's pause a grin spread across her face. "Well then why didn't you just say so!" She threw the letter opener to the floor and hurried down the remaining stairs with her arms outstretched.

"Jeffery, look at that you old fool!" She scolded the man who was still frozen in his spot on the stairway, clutching his chest in a manner that suggested that he was not so easily calmed by the revelation of Taranee's 'occupation'. "She's here to help us plan the wedding and you had me believing that I was in great peril!"

"Madam…I…"

"Hush!" she snapped, before turning to Taranee baffled face and asking in a voice that sounded almost motherly: "My poor dear—what ever happened to your clothes?"

_My clothes?_ The words seemed so unfamiliar in the haze of confusion that had suddenly overtaken her. Oh yes, she had planned for this…"I…was attacked on the way here by bandits…they made away with my possessions…and killed…my horse." After what had just transpired, Taranee no longed held any doubts that these people would not believe her inane little tale.

"My God!" The woman caressed Taranee's face with an expression of unadulterated concern; she at least did not seem the least bit perturbed by her rapid transformation from assassin to nurse.

"These attacks are truly getting out of hand." She paused thoughtfully, "why, just the other day my daughter's fiancé was attacked by Gypsies who had trained the nearby wolves to do their bidding."

"W-what?" Taranee croaked.

"Oh, he was all right—felled nine of them with a single bullet, he did."

"But…" Taranee paused; it was no good; perhaps Caleb hadn't been over exaggerating when he spoke of this woman.

"Aren't you efficient? I only just mailed that letter. So then tell me dear, what's your name?"

"My…Taranee, that's my name." She blurted, it was only afterwards that she realized that she should have created a pseudonym.

"Taranee." Susanna scrunched up her face as she weighed the word against her tongue. "No, I won't stand for it!"

"For…what?"

"A girl whose name doesn't end with an _ah_." She began as though this was the most obvious thing in the world. "Come with me," she grabbed Taranee's arm, "I'll show you to your room now, we may talk on the way—you needn't worry about clothing, I suppose that Will's dresses should fit you."

"Will?"

"Oh yes my oldest." She pulled Taranee up the stairs at such a rate that the shorter girl was forced to take tem two at a time. "Her name is actually Wilhelmi_na_, she just insists on being difficult, and then there's Ir_ma_, and of course Cornel_ia_—she's the bride to be."

"I…err…I see…"

"To tell you the truth my name is actually Susan," she frowned. "My mother is a bit outlandish—let's hope that you'll never be forced to meet her—so I named myself Susanna as soon as I was of age…it sounds better doesn't it? And how it helps with your bowels to say the _ah_ sound."

Taranee's mind had only barely found the time to process this new bit of information before a flash of red and green darted out from a corner.

Susan…or Susanna…managed to pull both herself and Taranee to safety before a very ruffled looking girl appeared in the middle of the corridor.

"Will!" Susanna cried with outrage. "What are you—look I told you to write those invitations, you cannot be finished already—where's you're sister—Oh god where's Caleb!"

"Relax mother—I'm simply off to retrieve some refreshments—of the liquor breed—so if you'll excuse me."

"Let the Lord have mercy on my soul!" Susanna hissed before grabbing the red head's arm with her free hand. "Can't you see that we have guests?"

"So you want me to share the Brandy—really mother, gluttony isn't one of my biggest personality flaws."

"No, your biggest flaw is that you induce insanity! Go and finish those invitations—and where is Irma!"

"She's finishing those invitations that you're so worried about—let go of my hand!"

"Fine—go do whatever you want—" She released the grip on the girl and suddenly they both looked at Taranee.

She could scarcely tell them apart.

With an odd little smile, the daughter stalked past them both, and her mother reached inside the fold of her dress and retrieved a small vial of amber liquid. "That child will run my blood to water."

"What's that that you're taking?" Taranee asked with a bluntness she prayed would go unnoticed.

"It's a tonic—for my nerves—the woman who made it for me should be arriving soon—for the wedding."

She sighed. And Taranee swallowed, she wasn't ready to play the role of comforter…not for this woman.

"Where was I now—oh yes, I think that we should call you Taranah, isn't that much nicer than your old name?"

Susanna encircled her small shoulders with her arms and marched happily onwards.

Taranee, now at a loss for a persuasive enough adjective to describe her situation could only nod. Perhaps she should purloin some hay for her horse—tomorrow had suddenly seemed such a short amount of time.

* * *

God, Jeffery was a fast one. Will bit her thumb as she stared at the emptied liquor cabinet, wondering just how one man had managed to drain one household's supply of alcohol in a matter of days.

She folded her legs comfortably underneath the hem of her dress and propped a hand under her chin. This was just wonderful.

Now what?

Stifling a yawn, she staggered to her feet. Slowly contemplating the idea of visiting the Potter's household if only to steal their liquor instead.

Her mother certainly wouldn't mind, in fact she might actually congratulate her on her initiative. That drew a small smile to the corners of her lips; somehow the idea of receiving anything other than a scolding from her mother, even in her sleepy mind, seemed wholly ludicrous.

"Hello."

The unfamiliar voice made Will start, and it abruptly erased all feelings of drowsiness from her mind, if only temporarily. She turned to face the woman that her mother had been dragging around earlier this morning.

"Hello," Will managed to say, "are you lost?"

"No, actually, I came to look for you." The corners of her honey colored eyes turned up when she finished the sentence.

Will's expression clouded, and suddenly the drowsiness swamped her again. "Oh," she mumbled, and began to walk away. "Well, you can tell my mother that I am not printing any more damn invitations and she may shove the entire wedding up her narrow, corseted—"

"No, no…" the woman stated seemingly amused by her outburst. "…I wanted to offer you some—err—help with your plight, since there seems to be no more rum on the premises."

"Really?" Will faced Taranee just to judge her expression. "Has my mother sent you to trick me—"

"No," she reached inside the pocket of an apron—a very familiar looking apron—and her hand emerged with a ring of keys. "I found these—" Well, it was more truthful that she had stolen those keys from Susanna when she hadn't been looking, after all, those years of pick pocketing had not gone to waste. "I believe that I heard your mother say that she had purchased some bottles of wine for the wedding, she's keeping them in the cellar."

Her finger lingered meaningfully on a curved brass key.

Will narrowed her eyes at the woman in suspicion. "I don't understand—exactly why are you doing this, you're here for the wedding, aren't you?"

As a child, Taranee's mother had often boasted upon the speed of her thinking, she possessed then, and she still did now, the uncanny ability to piece together bits of information that would lead to a crystal clear solution to any problem. The only difference was that then her ability had been used for boasting, now, it was used for manipulation.

"Well, if you don't want it, then…" she lowered the ring of keys from her sight. The girl didn't flinch. _Hmm_…that was odd. She studied the girl's obviously tired face—she couldn't be much more that sixteen and she was currently showing more pride than half of the men that she had interrogated in her lifetime.

"Why?"

"You seem a bit too young to be a drunkard." Taranee frowned, her admiration already turning to frustration; she was quickly losing patience with this house and all of its inhabitants.

"I'm not—I just…" Will dropped her gaze, exactly why had she wanted to do this again…oh yes, she was bored, she had wanted to escape Irma, annoy her mother, fall asleep and of course erase that horrible…_thing_…from her mind. "Fine," Will tugged the ring of keys from the woman's grasp.

"I won't tell your mother, if you're worried."

"I don't care what you tell my mother, you may also tell her that I'll be in the barn, and she drove me to this." After all it was she who had invited _him_ here. Her stomach quaked but she managed to soothe it with a surge of anger, something that as of late she had trained herself to accomplish. With a silent groan she prayed to the heavens that she was becoming ill because it would be a great blow to her character if she were to still be feeling anything where that man was concerned. She unhooked the heavy key from the ring, and then thrust the others into Tranee's hands.

"I'll be off."

Taranee watched, completely pleased with herself for the first time in a _long_ time. Finally things seemed to be going according to plan.

* * *

No less than a half an hour later, Taranee had sprinted across the garden to Caleb's cottage and was pounding on the door, screaming at him to answer her. He appeared soon after, hair ruffled, shirt undone, with the blatant demeanor of someone who had just been roused from a long anticipated slumber.

"Does no one in this house sleep?" Taranee snapped, pushing past him without waiting for an invitation.

"You won't believe the day that I've had so far!" She threw herself into a colorfully upholstered sofa.

"Taranee you're…wearing…"

"Yes, yes, a dress isn't it amazing!" She mentally with held the stream of curses that were itching her tongue. "You men are so incompetent!"

He smiled slowly at her. "I'll take it that you've met the family."

"Ha ha," she mumbled, "well, you won't be laughing for much longer, I've figured out a way for you to question the oldest girl—the one with red hair right?"

Caleb's face visibly drooped. "I—"

"Never you mind how difficult she is, I got her drunk—well she got herself, I just provided her with a means to get the liquor, she's in the barn, go to her and ask her a few things."

"Taranee…"

"I don't care Caleb. She's a _child_, a spoilt child, a rude child, but she's still a little girl. Look, I'd do it myself, but her mother has decided that she wants me to choose wedding rings or some such nonsense, I only got away because I convinced her that I had eaten some bad stew in the last town."

His jaw tightened, while his eyes stared blankly at her face. "Exactly what did she do to you?" his partner questioned.

"You don't understand…"

"I'd better not understand!" She rose to her feet and marched toward Caleb. "Is this why you're both so sluggish? Is this why you weren't dressed when I came last night—Caleb, you're _not_—you _can't_ be!" By the time Taranee had finished her accusations, her face had twisted itself into an expression of unmodified repulsion.

"What? No, look you've got the wrong idea…"

"Need I remind you that we are supposed to be working! This is a job, not a—a makeshift whore house and there are people whose lives depend on the success of this mission, you don't have time to be off with a little girl—for God's sake if you're going to fuck someone at least let it be the one that you're supposed to be marrying!"

Weren't these the same thing he had been telling himself for the last few days? "Taranee, calm down—it isn't like that, she just—hates me that's all, I told her something that I shouldn't have and…"

"Oh right, because if that's all it was you'd actually be behaving like this—since when have you cared about people's feelings?"

"You really have a way with words, don't you?" He sighed, eager to put an end to this conversation. "I can't believe that you got her drunk."

"Just be glad that it was this easy…and I told you, she got herself drunk," she grinned, "I just didn't stop her."

"Whatever you say," he slowly redid his shirt and eased on his jacket. "I'll be off then."

"Right," the expression of frustration eased itself onto her face as soon as he'd left. Perhaps she had jumped to conclusions far too quickly…after all; Caleb knew what he was doing. He wouldn't risk everything for a pretty face.

* * *

If she hadn't wanted to be found she was doing a very poor job of hiding, Caleb decided minutes later. The door to the barn was wide open and as an apparent result one of the horses was currently sprinting at breakneck speed across the gardens towards the road.

So, even the animals hated it here he noted grimly.

The midday sun peered through the cracks in the walls of the barn, desperate to see whatever it was that was going on inside. They would be sorely disappointed however, since at the moment the only occupant that Caleb could see had apparently climbed to the top of a very rickety looking platform and was swinging her dangling feet off the side of it, humming an unrecognizable version of a song that he suspected that he'd heard at home once.

It hadn't taken that long for her to realize that she'd seen him as well. Her almond shaped eyes followed the sounds of his feet, and met his gaze so swiftly that his head spun for an entire minute.

He commanded himself to find at least some shred of dignity, it was bad enough that his last twenty-four hours had been ridden with guilt, but now it would simply be too much if he transformed into a dizzy school girl at the mere sight of her.

But even then, as he made a Herculean effort to lean oh so casually against a stall, all he could fathom was just how alluring her eyes were. They called to him, and he couldn't look away.

She broke contact first in fact, her entire body turned sideways as she roamed through a basket that was resting next to her. Those same amazing eyes, the ones that only moments ago had spoken of a hidden vulnerability and child like hope, suddenly narrowed as her hand sliced upwards and then forward, and Caleb could only dart sideways even before the realization struck him—oh god, she had just thrown a bottle at him.

"Damn, if I'd known that it would have missed then I wouldn't have bothered," her voice, low almost mocking drifted echoed across the empty stalls and barns before finally reaching him where he was, crouched, low on the ground. "I wanted to drink the rest of that."

It was then he supposed, that he noticed the crawl of the violet liquid as it descended tauntingly along the beam that he had just been propped against. Shit, but she had good aim.

He had never really wanted to go look for her, reason number one being that he couldn't in all honesty trust himself when he was around her, reason number two had been because he had expected something like this—an attack, an assault, although he had imagined that it would have been verbal.

He struggled to his feet, hoping that she wouldn't throw anything else, he released a jailed breath when he noticed that she had apparently lost interest in him, and had gone back to her wine, which was neatly arranged in the nearby wicker basket.

"So Mister Olsen," he watched in silence as she uncorked the beverage. "Are you following me now?"

A swell of masculine pride cause him to scoff. Well of course that wasn't true—the truth was far more pitiful: he had been hiding from her.

"Not every one of my actions can be linked to you." He snapped at her reclining figure. She shrugged without looking at him, "No, then let me re-phrase. Is your itch following me now?" She laughed shortly before taking a long swallow of the wine in her hand.

He watched with a nearly comical interest as her face turned up in a mixture of pain and disgust when the wine entered her mouth. Visibly, she forced herself to swallow, before shaking her head wildly and then coughing.

"You're a terrible drunk." He said.

She laughed again; the only real sign of her intoxicated state, for the red haired girl that he had become acquainted with would have never let him see that he had any effect on her.

"I'm not drunk."

He inched closer to her position on the platform. "I've seen many a drunken man in my life, and you are at least half way there." _How did she even get up there?_

"No, I am not _runk_." She giggled, "and I won't get _runk_ if you keep talking…aren't men supposed to be silent?" To prove a point she pressed a slender finger to her pouting lips and shushed him.

_Oh God, that mouth. Phobos_…right, _Phobos_. She had to know by now, what she did to him—or maybe she didn't after all, judging from both her innocent, frustrated questioning yesterday and her subsequent reaction; she probably didn't have a blasted clue.

Damn. There was the guilt again.

"I'll offer you a truce, Mister Olsen." On her perch above him she flopped onto her stomach. "Would you care for some wine?"

"No, I wouldn't." He stopped immediately beneath her, and craned his head upwards to look at her properly.

"You're very rude." She pointed her tongue at him before collapsing into a fit of giggles.

"Exactly how many bottles have you had?" He had tossed a wary glance at her rapidly reddening face, before succumbing to the urge to ask this question.

"This many," she held up five fingers. "Three. That is a very small number."

Five or three, it didn't matter, he could see it now; she was in very obvious danger of falling from that platform.

"Oh Taranee, you have no idea…" he grumbled under his breath.

"How do you think that they get the pear in the bottle—do they just shove it in or…are there tiny pears grown in France?"

He almost laughed at the seriousness of her expression when she asked that. Still, he managed to recover: "You're drunk; get down here before you break your damn neck!"

"I am not drunk—I've only had three bottles and three is a very small number." She repeated.

"You exist to torment me, don't you—"

"You sound like my mother—wouldn't that be funny, if she were to come in here now?"

_Funny _wasn't really the word he would use, but if she saw some humor in her mother's obvious insanity then so be it.

"If you don't come down then I'll have to come up there—"

"You don't have to do a damn thing!" And she crawled out of sight.

Oh wonderful, just simply wonderful. How she could cause him to be amazed, frustrated, and angry in the space of fifteen minutes…

He began pacing, trying desperately to clear the fogginess that had overtaken his mind.

"What do you mean by I sound just like your mother?" He called to her, for he had decided, very abruptly, that having her talking to him was far better than having her tumbling from atop that loft, and Phobos—well he would just have to wait.

"Just what I said." Was the curt reply.

_Just come down._ "It wouldn't be funny if your mother came in here now, I'm certain that…"

"You're right," the response was, oddly enough, tinged with some unfathomable humor, "if my mother saw me here—she would launch into a very long lecture about me not being like Cornelia." She laughed.

"She thinks that I don't try—you see; that I don't care…"

Something in her voice seized his chest, and refused to let go. It was all so familiar, wasn't it? "Will…"

All sympathy for her evaporated in the next second when she rolled another half empty bottle from her perch, one that had he not jumped, would have crashed right into his head.

"Are you dead?" She asked above the river of curses and blasphemies that he was currently emitting.

"No!" Caleb snapped. "Look, if you don't come down here then…"

"It slipped." Her voice seemed to soothe the rancid taste of anger from his mouth. "I'm sorry."

"J-just come down from there all right—it isn't safe." Willingly ignoring the new sensation that had lodged itself in his throat, he craned his neck to see where she was. Much to his shock, it seemed that for once, she was obeying him.

With little or no grace, she stumbled, barefooted down the rope ladder that she herself had obviously hidden from him. Upon making contact with the straw ridden floor, she stumbled again, this time falling, with the same graceless elegance, onto the floor.

Despite his better judgment, he bent to help her. "It's a wonder that you aren't dead yet."

Her eyes, curious, captivating, flew to his in a move that only showcased her astonishment of having him so near to her. She laughed, finally, in a manner that was different from all the other times that he had heard it today. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips at the recognition that it had been he who had caused her mirth.

He dragged his hands along her arms before pulling her to her feet. Upon releasing her from his steadying grip however, she went sprawling backwards before he caught her again.

"I think that I may have had a bit more than three bottles."

"You think?"

She smiled at the ground. "You don't need to—err—hold me…I can walk."

"I'll take my chances." He swallowed. "Besides," he decided to dredge up at least some of his trademarked arrogance, "you'll have enough worries tomorrow morning without having your head busted open."

She took a shaky step forward before her face wrinkled in confusion. "Have you seen my shoes?"

* * *

**Author:** Well, I hope that this didn't feel too forced. But then again, forced is sparkly backgrounds and hair whipping, so I think that I'm okay.

I really don't know how this story is going. I re did the chapter summaries the other day and I peaked at twenty one. Wow. I'll have to chop that baby down.

I had writer's block the other day, that's why the last chapter was so short. And I was grumpy, because that was probably my first case of writer's block ever…which led to me ranting and whatever.

All right, for the story; I'm moving this fic to my livejournal, so that you can all read it in case it gets deleted when I put sex in it. You know how terrible those tweeny bopper CxC fans are.

For the story, some things I hope that you noticed, but if you didn't (I still love to talk):

Cornelia's shoes that don't fit Will (symbolic). Jeffery drank all the liquor when Will was late that night. Will went and told her mother that she was getting drunk, and then she told Taranee where she was. She, like all pissed off teenagers, is simply doing all of this to get a reaction. The horses, also symbolic.

I'm pretty proud of this chapter, I think that those last few lines are probably the most real that Will has been throughout the entire story. SEE, I told you that I knew what I was doing. :P It's called character development. I'll work on Irma next.

Okay, that's about it for now. My sex god—A.K.A.—Phobos, should be around next chapter as well. And hangovers, whoo, haven't we all been there? Since this website is just so…grrr. I've posted the link for the picture on my profile page. Hopefully, it works better now.

**Dedicated:** To all y'all readers who come here and don't review. I still love you guys! And to heartlessmoon for making her awesome videos. I wish that I had thought of that.


	10. Chapter 10

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

Chapter Ten

* * *

The human body, as magnificent as we claim that it is, does possess very noticeable limits. We humans cannot fly, we cannot survive in waters that dominate our earth, but we are adaptable, we have learnt to cope—to rebel. We devour the birds of the air and the fish of sea, in jealousy perhaps, or retribution. We find a way to exert our superiority over those that believe themselves to be dominant.

Or at least, we try. Emotions however are our real weakness. We cannot devour them, they that reside within ourselves. They weaken us; this is what we already know: there will never be any justice then, never any form of retribution. We are our own victims.

* * *

It really was no surprise then that Caleb should succumb to the tiredness that had been assaulting his body over the last few days. Stubborn as he was to allow himself to be lulled asleep by images of that…girl. He could no long withstand the throbbing emanating from his temples.

And so, without much fuss, he had allowed the blissful unconsciousness to drift over him, and he had welcomed, with somewhat open arms the sleep that had eluded him for so long.

Maybe, if he had known what dreams lay dormant, waiting for him in his sub-conscious, he would have made a greater effort to fend off the drowsiness.

He had been standing in the parlor, vaguely staring at the multitude of portraits decorating the wall; Phobos, Cornelia…when she had joined him. He had known that it was her because of the enthralling aroma that she carried around with her. He had frowned, she had scowled, yet wordlessly, she had walked towards him, until she had been close enough to touch his chest. For at least one instant (completely unaware of his dreamy state), he had considered the notion of pushing her away, knowing full well just how easily she had been able to confuse his senses in the past.

But instead he moved for her hands, and led them in one smooth action towards his face, where she had brushed her fingers along his lips. She traced each masculine curve of his mouth, as if trying to remember the feel of them, the taste of him.

He wanted so much to savor her in that moment, but he hesitated, still oblivious to her plan for him.

She had pulled him closer then, he remembered noticing her almost inhuman strength, but then again he hadn't really been trying to impede her work.

He groaned at the thought, though he relished in the second when their lips touched finally, and his hands accomplished in holding her shoulders and pressing her firmly against him.

He needed her; this feeling, the glory of her softness pressed against his hard chest, and the sounds of her whimpering against him.

In his mind—right now, there was nothing else.

_No one else._

* * *

Consciousness dribbled slowly back into his fantasy world…and eventually the wistful colors and shapes were replaced by the shadows and angles of his room.

Damn.

Well this was fantastic, now she was in his dreams. This was it—the final assault. No, no, no! He didn't need this—not here, not now.

Muttering a series of four lettered words Caleb shifted his position in bed. Women. Ha! They were nothing more than distractions for an idle mind, and that red headed one, well she was no different. How she had managed to infiltrate his defenses was beyond him…it probably had something to do with that cologne.

And, he also hadn't had a very good day trying to ignoring her either. He had led her around for a good hour looking for her missing shoes, and then spent another hour convincing her to go back home. For in her inebriated state, she had decided that it was a wonderful idea to run away. Actually, he thought grudgingly, she was actually amicable when drunk—or at least when she wasn't trying to kick him, throw things at him or silently curse him into the depths of hell.

A knot in his chest tightened, it would be so easy to just…

No, Caleb, get some rest. They're just dreams after all… the spicy scent wafted up from the pillows, seductively trying to lull him back to sleep.

"At long last. You're awake."

Caleb jolted upwards at the sound of the voice. His already racing heart now threatened to burst from his chest, instinctively his eyes roamed the darkness for…

"Taranee?"

She nodded before returning her attention to the knife and the stone that she had been using to sharpen it.

"What? Are the doors too good for you now?" Caleb snapped.

"What were you moaning about just now?" a large grin spread across her shadowy features. "Or do I even want to know?"

"How…long have you been here?" Grateful for the darkness of the night, Caleb stammered what he assumed was an impassive response.

"Long enough," was the curt reply. Caleb snorted; he knew very well that Taranee would find some way to use this bit of information against him later, most likely when it was her turn to muck out the stables at their headquarters.

"Well then why didn't you wake me?"

"Ah, but you seemed to be enjoying yourself so much…" she coughed back a laugh.

_Bitch._

"Since you've been here Caleb, you've become complacent! I could have killed you twenty six times since I was standing here." She sliced the knife's blade through the air. "And how do I know that? It's because I had time to count them while you were dreaming!"

And what was she complaining about—he was the one in turmoil. Any other person being subjected to the range of emotions that he was feeling would be off composing sonnets and arranging bouquets, in anything, Taranee should be commending him on his tenacity.

"I want your pistol by the way." She kicked open the trunk at the foot of his bed. "Therefore, I'm taking it…you can have the knife."

"Is that why you came?"

"Of course not, it just occurred to me that in your besotted state it isn't safe for you to carry a pistol." She extracted the offending weapon, and deposited the sheathed knife within the depths of the trunk. "If you have a knife—if you attempt to attack any other of that girl's suitors, they'll definitely shoot you. I do hope that you know that."

"Some logic." Caleb didn't even challenge Taranee's portrayal of him being a heartsick fool, but still—was it that obvious? "Do you really believe that I'm that reckless?"

"I don't know what to think Caleb. I saw the two of you…" Taranee paused to think of a disgusting enough word to describe what she had witnessed, "…_promenading _about the gardens. And Susan almost saw it as well, I had to convince her to re-do her draperies for the wedding in order to get her away from the window."

"I was not _promenading_…" a faint feeling of outrage awakened from within his chest, "…you're the one who got her drunk, was I just supposed to leave her?"

"Don't blame this on me!" She snapped, "I just spent the better part of my day being told that there are at least forty different shades of blue—and _not one_ of them matches your little friend's hair!"

Finally, Taranee emitted a sound that sounded part wolf, part crazed lunatic and then stomped off towards the window to conclude the argument by herself. When one of her personalities had emerged victorious, she returned to his bedside.

"Well, what did you learn?"

"Nothing."

"Excuse me…"

Quickly, as a matter of self preservation (since he hadn't actually remembered to question Will about anything concerning Phobos) his mind scanned that conversations he had been dragged into by the other members of her family. "Err…she was sick when he was here…chicken pox or something…actually, she thinks that he's returned home, to Greece."

Taranee, with her hand resting beneath her chin, a pose that indicated that she was in deep thought, frowned at his answer, but at the very least, she didn't question it any further. "Well, then there's no other way—we'll have to get it from," she released a long breath, "their mother."

There were no words of condolence that Caleb could think to give her, so he remained silent, or at least he tried, but that was before a very sinister thought crept into his mind. "Taranee," he slowly strung together his thoughts in a way that wouldn't seem too offensive, "what do you want with my pistol?"

"I told you," she repeated in a blatant parody of his carefully modulated pitch, "you are behaving like a child and it isn't safe…what, you don't think that I would attack them, eh?"

When Caleb didn't respond she took it as a great insult. "Well I'm not a murderer Caleb, in case you've forgotten; I'm trying to _catch _a killer."

"In case you've forgotten; you're being paid."

* * *

Maybe it's a curse—or a sick side effect created by whomever it was that had discovered alcohol…the horrible skin crawling sensations of the morning after. There should be a warning on the bottle, Will decided after her third attempt to pry her eye lids open…something that forewarned unsuspecting girls such as herself about the dangers of the beverage.

It was strange how these after effects seemed to do nothing to Jeffery…maybe it was a built up resistance. In which case Will resolved that she would simply have to endure the pain for the rest of her life—since getting drunk was far less glamorous than she had imagined it to be.

The euphoria hadn't been very uplifting, and then there of course was the fact that she had a sneaky suspicion that she had spent a great deal of time in the company of her mortal enemy, Mister Olsen. It was too blurry to be certain, and far too surreal to be confident…but had he helped her look for her shoes?

Well at least she had slept—it had been a long dreamless slumber punctuated every now and again with dreams of Irma and paper hearts.

Wine—who needed it? Will snuggled deeper within her comforters, inwardly flinching when her stomach lurched as she moved. This wasn't going to be a good day. From outside her closed door, Will could make out the usual morning activities: the screaming, the fighting—the mother nearing her door, but already scolding her for exhibiting yet another one of the seven deadly sins.

An explosion—which must have been a very clever imitation of gunfire—echoed from her wall. Will jumped from beneath the sheets—winced, and then collapsed into her makeshift sanctuary, completely disgruntled.

"Wilhelmina Vandom!" Ah, so it wasn't a sign of battle—it was merely her mother playing rooster. "Do you have any idea what time it is!"

"Yes, mother—I shall just check the pocket watch that is nailed to the backs of my eyes." She grumbled, her head hurt, her eyes hurt, her skin hurt for God's sake…and all she wanted to do was to crawl into her covers until the world disappeared.

"What are you muttering about?" Even with her eyes closed, Will knew that her mother was rummaging through her closet. Great, first Irma and now her.

"Come on now child, it's Sunday, we're going to church."

Will felt, if possible, even worse than before. "But I'm sick."

"You're always ill on Sundays aren't you? Did you think that I had forgotten the mysterious case of chills that had done you in, you remember Will, the one that disappeared in two hours?"

"All right, I haven't been honest in the past—but I really am sick today mother!"

"You have a half an hour Wilhelmina. Don't worry, Jesus will heal you if you show some enthusiasm. After all Jesus has no time for those in the midst of committing sloth! And wear this dress," Will forced one eye open, only to clamp it shut only a second after due to the magnitude of light that was surrounding her mother—she groaned.

"Oh come now child, it isn't so terrible, if you move the side of the bow this way it does look less like a sack…"

She peeled the blessed covers from atop of Will's fetal form. "Up!" Was the command.

* * *

Half an hour later, Susanna had managed to arrange the majority of her party in the foyer, as planned. Noticeably absent however, were all three of her daughters.

The raven haired mother, who was obviously on the verge of either a meltdown or a rampage ordered Jeffery upstairs to, in her words, haul their ungodly behinds down the stairs.

Turning to her future son-in-law (whom she had practically kidnapped from his lodgings and then notoriously blackmailed into joining them for mass) she smiled self-consciously. "Girls. Well, I'm sure you'll get used to it Mister Olsen!"

She turned away before he could be heard muttering an "I doubt that".

"Madam," Jeffery called from the upstairs hallway. "Cornelia is unwell—she claims that it is Scarlet Fever."

"What!" She shrieked and bounded upstairs to join her manservant.

"Cornelia does not have Scarlet Fever, we've all had it and you can't get it twice—remember Mother when we were younger and you carried us to that old tavern in Jamestown so that we could get exposed to it…oh yes, you must remember because that's where you met Uncle Fredrick, and he certainly won't stop bringing it up when he visits you so late at night…"

"Be quiet Irma!"

Irma shrugged and continued her journey to Will's bedroom across the hall. "Will? Are you decent?" Without waiting for an answer she pried open the door.

"Irma!" Her sister hissed before clutching her bed sheets to her body and dropping to the floor. "I said no!"

"So shy, so shy," Irma chided. "What, it isn't as though you have anything that I haven't seen before—now when you saw me, well I'm sure that it was a shock."

"Oh, I'm sure that you say that to all of your beaus." The red head snapped, before dissolving into a series of uncontrollable moans.

"Will, you're still on the floor."

"It's very comfortable."

"I'm certain." Irma closed the door behind her. "You didn't really get drunk did you?"

"Of course I did, I told you that I would, didn't I?"

"Well Will, you say a lot of things…if you did half of them—you'd been a one-legged concubine in the Orient by now."

"I've changed my mind; I liked you better when you were depressed and suicidal."

"Irma!" From the corridor Susanna, obviously too frustrated and tired to do any actual searching for her children, had resorted to screaming at them.

"I'm in here mother." Irma screamed back, making a face at the invisible owner of the voice when she was finished.

"For God's sake—why don't the lot of you just take a hammer and bludgeon me to death right now." Will grumbled.

"You're still on the floor."

The smirk was erased from her face an instant later when their mother stormed in. "Irma—why are you in here! Go fix your hair—do you still need Emma to do this for you? Where's your sister?"

"Here I am."

Susanna's gaze shifted to the spot beside the bed. "Oh for god's sake—fine, if you choose to be this way, then I'll dress you myself."

Irma chose this time to make an exit.

"Don't touch me woman! I can dress myself…I'm not five! Let GO!"

She thoroughly regretted it though, and spent the next few minutes with her ear pressed against the bedroom door, until she was finally removed minutes later when Will was pushed outside, looking as flustered as a partridge on Christmas.

"Sometimes, I pray that this is some ridiculous cosmic joke." She hissed, but descended the stairway without much incident.

"Irma," Susanna emerged next, looking just as flustered, although marginally happier than her daughter. "Cornelia is unwell—it's probably due to all of this excitement of the wedding and all…Jeffery should be outside her bedroom door, I want you to tell him to stay by her _bedside_ until we return. Remember Irma this is very important…I need to go find some keys—I misplaced them yesterday."

Irma nodded, and wordlessly obeyed. Her thoughts however lay on those keys her mother had mentioned…if she could only get her hands on those…

* * *

"And what are you smiling at?" Will's first defense: ignoring her enemy had failed, mainly because he was so damned annoying, so she had resorted to her second line; sheer insolence.

"I told you that you would be sick." He mentioned after a moment's consideration, from his accustomed pose, leaning heavily on some wall or the other, he prayed that he conveyed the epitome of casualness.

Truthfully, she couldn't remember much of what had occurred yesterday (most of the conversations that she recalled were filled with loud buzzing noises instead of words) and it annoyed her to realize that he had something over her.

"Sick of you, is more like it." She snapped, "And if I were only a wee bit less tired, I would beat that grin off of your face."

"And if you were only a wee bit less tired, I suppose that I would take you up on that threat."

He allowed a smile to graze his face, and for a long instant she seemed nothing short of stunned to see him smiling at her.

"Are we—having an actual conversation?" She managed to say at last…it was a comment meant for an inward discussion, but it had slipped from her lips due to her astonishment in the situation.

He shrugged and looked away, while Will felt the growing tension in her chest lessen every so slightly. Irma was right, she thought, he was very handsome…

Her face reddened by its own doing, and Will had to shake her head to steady herself. Bad idea, she noticed moments after, as a whirlpool of dizzying sensation overwhelmed her mind. She held on a bit tighter to the banister. Well, at least some things never changed.

* * *

A mother's intuition when used correctly is seldom wrong. And Susanna, despite all of her other more dominant personality traits was a very perceptive person. And a perceptive mother, well now, that was just formidable.

Oh what she had seen, as she lingered at the top of the stairwell: the look in her daughter's eyes, the way her face had darkened at his words. The subtle toss of her hair from across her face—she had seen it, hell, she had been _it_, for a very long time.

And for the first time since that night, fear—cold and hard, that bridged upon unbridled panic, gripped her scheming psyche. This couldn't be happening, not when she was so close…

"Will darling," she intentionally startled the pair into noticing her presence. "You were right, I see it now…you do look terribly ill, and far be it from me to drag you to the cemetery. Go along to your bedroom and get some rest."

Will, if anything had inherited her mother sharpness. "But I thought that Jesus would heal me." That, mixed with her father's sarcasm, was a dreadful blend.

"Don't get smart, I know what's best." Will didn't fight for much longer, and soon the bedroom door had slammed shut; only then did Susanna allow herself to breathe.

"Caleb, I do apologize for the delay—now where is that planner woman; I just know that she'll enjoy mass as well."

She needed to remain calm; Caleb was a man of honor! Well, she expected he was, she hadn't really had much time to research the family's history beforehand. He wouldn't leave one sister for the other—that was a scandal that no man would want to bear. Everything would be fine; she repeated to herself, it all had to be.

* * *

Heatherfield Virginia, wasthe classic definition of asmall town. They lacked the excitement and buzz of the larger cities and so the thrived on what little excitement they had…primarily, through gossip.

And what a fine day it had been for them when Susanna Vandom-Hale-Lair soon-to-be Countess, had taken up residence in the large estate at the edge of town. The woman's antics never ceased to amaze, and more recently, her children's antics had gotten just as scandalous, which of course, made it all the more delicious for Sunday morning conversation.

Standing outside the front of the Church among the potted plants and the newly scrubbed cobblestone walkway, discussing these very things were three very fine old ladies. They were all past their prime—long past in the case of Old Miss. Burke, but still every week, (unless the victim of a particularly nasty bout of arthritis) they would make it to Sunday mass. If only to stand outside and "discuss" (they never admitted to gossiping, for gossiping was a sin) the latest going ons in their fine Heatherfield. As you could imagine, the fine Countess, was never exempt from these discussions.

"It's an absolute disgrace!" Mrs. Kingsley declared. "Have you heard that she's marrying off the middle daughter first!"

"It's not wonder I say!" Mrs. Potter sneered in between adjusting her hat. "That first born is a beast, I made the mistake of inviting her to our Ball last summer and she threw a vase at my Joesph!"

Miss Burke shook her head in mock sadness, while on the inside she was jumping with concealed glee. "Their mother just probably wants to get the only good one out of the house before the other two completely tarnish the family's name."

"Name, or names Ruth?" One laughed, and the others followed.

"It is such a pity that the poor girl was born into such a family—it's like I always say," Miss Burke closed her eyes and recited, "It's not the name, it's the people."

"I've told my Edward that if only I had known how these things would have turned out, I would have gladly taken in Cornelia to raise as my own. With the proper upbringing she could have been the belle of Heatherfield."

"Instead, she's got an arranged marriage to a…what was it…a lawyer?"

All three women shuddered simultaneously.

"I suppose that she can't afford to be choosy." Mrs. Kingsley noted.

"Oh, the final nail in the coffin was that youngest! Would you believe in the closet—with the stable boy?" Mrs. Potter gasped theatrically as she had done the last fifty or so times that she had heard the exact same story.

"And her mother has yet to sack the brute!" Miss. Burke reported.

"What!" Hissed Mrs. Potter. "Had it been me, I would have had that bastard hanged. What is she thinking?"

"Who knows?" Sighed Mrs. Kingsley, but her confusion didn't last for very long, for she had soon recalled a very interesting talking point. "Did you two know that she's invited the man to come to her house?"

"What?" was the expected and welcomed reply.

"Yes, he has been staying at their house—in that tiny little cottage on the estate…"

"The one where Wilhelmina was taken to when she infected everyone with the measles?"

"That's another thing! I've never seen one person with so many illnesses—I suppose that she gets it from her father, he died young I've heard, from Tuberculosis or some such…"

"Anyway," Mrs. Kingsley interrupted her fiend's train of thought, far too eager to divulge her newly found snippet of information to be lead astray by that tired old piece of news. "It is the very same cottage, and no, we haven't a clue as to if it's clean or not."

"And he's still there?" Questioned Mrs. Burke, "Well, he must be absolutely smitten by Cornelia not to have gone running away in two hours!"

"Or perhaps…" Mrs. Potter lowered her voice, "…they're paying him."

* * *

The ladies all huddled together to discuss in more detail all the implications of this suitor being hired. Their conversation was cut short however, by the subsequent arrival of the objects of conversation…or at least, some of them.

By the time the dirty "brute" and "bastard" had climbed from the top of the carriage to open the door, Susanna was already outside and adjusting her gloves.

"I cannot believe that Taranah was ill as well!" She shook her head. "It's that dirty town meat I know it! I swear that I haven't a clue as to what they do those animals in those taverns."

"It's a crying shame Mother." Exited Irma followed by Caleb, who sadly hadn't managed to conceive an excuse before Irma had latched onto his arm and pulled him with her into the awaiting carriage.

"Oh, look," frowned Susanna when her gaze fell upon the three women huddled together in the centre of the lawn. "It's those horrible women…come along now, I have to invite them to the Ball."

"I don't those old prunes at my Ball!" Irma protested.

"Whose Ball is it Irma?" Susanna replied offhandedly, "Anyway I have to do it—or they'll talk."

Susanna made a great show of introductions and greetings, all flaws aside; she did possess a natural skill for being around people.

"Well, I've already posted your formal invitations, but since there is not post on Sundays, I wanted to tell you myself, so that you would all be able to prepare."

'It's a bit sudden, don't you think Susan?" Mrs. Potter said. "Forgive me, but when I have my summer balls, I usually give out the invitations a few months in advance."

"Well, we wouldn't know that." Irma interrupted, "after all, you never invite us."

An awkward silence followed as Irma withered beneath her mother's stern gaze.

"Err…well, have you ladies all heard about the latest murder?" Miss. Burke recovered.

"Dublin's girl?" Mrs. Potter asked, and for the first time since he had arrived Caleb's interest suddenly sparked.

"No, no, there's been another one. A girl in Fadden Hills, I heard that when they found the poor dear's body all of her teeth were pulled out."

Irma froze. "D-Dublin's daughter—she's dead?"

"Oh yes," Mrs. Kingsley snapped, "now don't tell me that your mother doesn't let you girls stay informed with the current events."

Irma didn't reply, her entire mood had suddenly done a complete about face. This couldn't be the same girl that she had been trying so valiantly to help. Her throat closed up and tears stung the backs of her eyes.

Mrs. Kingsley was abruptly hushed by a look from the ever domineering Miss Burke.

"Well, it has been rather recent." She attempted to amend. "I only found out about it this morning."

"Fadden…is rather nearby isn't it?" Susanna mentioned.

"About ten miles that way." Mrs. Potter put in, "it's like I always say, keep your children indoors, there is noting useful about the sunlight."

"But that Dublin!" Mrs. Kingsley began now that the expected ten seconds of reflection had passed, "the man couldn't find the nose on his face!"

"It's just like I've always said Ester," Mrs. Potter nodded and continued. "They should have given that job to my George." No one dared to mention that the only reason that George Potter hadn't been given the post in the first place had been because he had been…temporarily indisposed; as in jailed.

"Susanna dear, you look terribly unwell." Miss Burke spotted. "Is it all of this talk of missing teeth and murders?"

"No, no!" Susanna removed that hand that she had clamped against her forehead. "I don't think that I'm feeling so well—it's probably this heat."

"These are the last days my dear! The good book says that there will be signs and wonders—"

"I've just noticed Susanna, your party looks a bit short today!" Mary Potter interjected.

"Oh! Well, Cornelia came down with a case of the chills this morning—or the heats, I can never really tell. And Will, she had…"

"Wilhelmina is ill again!" Miss Burke practically yelled. "Listen Susanna, that child possesses a terrible disposition, and it would be in your best interest to attempt to cure her! Boil a lizard—and give it to her in a broth, do you here me, my niece is Ireland suffered from the same thing, now she's as right as rain. With such poor health, it's becoming obvious that she won't be able to bear strong, healthy sons."

"That's wonderful, Ruth." Susanna smiled, apparently thankful for the advice. "I shall do that as soon as I return home!"

"So are they both at home by themselves?" Mrs. Potter pried.

"Oh no, Jeffery is there with them." Susanna placated, obviously unaware of the silence that had just besieged the three older women.

"Forgive me…" Mrs. Kingsley sputtered, under the frank impression that this was simply too scandalous to be true, "…but you left your two unwed daughters at home…alone, in the company of an unwed man?"

"Oh, it really isn't that horrible. When Will had taken ill with the measles, he stayed with her in the cottage for weeks!" Even Irma, by now had become aware that her mother was digging her own grave; she prodded the woman in her side, wordlessly begging her to stop. "Stop that Irma, he grew up in Scotland you see, and as a result he's had every disease known to man. It's perfectly safe; he's like a brother to them."

"I see…" Miss. Burke tried to remove the look of revulsion that had become etched on her face.

"I do believe that the heat has gone right to your head Mother…we really should return home."

"I agree." Susanna bade the stunned, joyful, old women goodbye, before asking them to remember the ball.

When they had all dispersed, Miss. Burke turned to face her comrades. "Did you notice that the boy never said a word in friendly conversation?"

"He's so anti-social."

"It's more anti-person, in my opinion."

"Or perhaps…he's an invalid."

* * *

Will had been just dozing off; when Irma had loudly pushed open her bedroom door. "I'm depressed Will."

"Go away Irma." Will mumbled from beneath her multitude of pillows and blankets. Her sister ignored her rude request and instead crawled into bed beside her.

"Is church finished already?"

"No, Mother felt ill so we returned home. Will, Mister Dublin's daughter is dead."

"Was she sick?" Will mumbled out of curiosity.

"No she was missing. Someone murdered her."

"That's…" No words she could think of seemed adequate enough to describe the situation, so Will remained silent. "How old was she?"

"I don't know, but he had said that she resembled me…I feel terrible."

"It—wasn't your fault, you shouldn't."

"I suppose," Irma sighed. "I should just find something to take my mind off of all this."

"That's a good idea, go knit or embroider something."

"I'd much rather continue with my attempts to make Mister Olsen fall in love with you—"

Will's heart suddenly jumped to her throat, she had just become so much more aware of the blood flowing in her ears. "What—no, don't do that…I-I…go away Irma!"

"Did something happen?" Irma practically squealed.

"Leave me alone!" She yanked the covers over her head; the equivalent of hiding.

"Yes…something did happen! Did he kiss you?"

"No! Nothing—and I…" she trailed off. "I said to leave me alone or I'll tell Cornelia exactly what happened to her blue dress."

"She already knows…and did you help me do it? Anyway, you don't need to worry yourself any more. My work here seems almost done." She grinned to herself and practically danced downstairs.

Only then did Will remove the blankets from her face. Her very, very hot face. A traitor, terrible and blatant. _Heh_, she thought, _Irma was most definitely loving this._

* * *

The point of exempting herself from Sunday mass, had been (and God forgive her already blemished soul) to search the (hopefully) empty house. Little had she anticipated on that fact that two daughters and one butler would remain at home. As well as several servants, who had been fished from the kitchens and stables to various posts about the house.

There was a cook at the entrance, two stable boys at the servant's door…in truth, Susanna (after realizing that her keys were really lost) had placed a servant or two at every door and even the first floor windows. It was as though she had been preparing for an attack.

Taranee had decided to keep the keys for a while longer, since she was most definitely not a suspect in their disappearance. They had proved most un-useful however, since there were far too many people present for her to search places like the Library and the Study to her heart's desire.

So that the opportunity wouldn't be a complete waste, she had stalked off to the Attic. It had been, cluttered as she had expected, but not filled with the bits and pieces of old decaying furniture and trunks of old clothes.

It was clean for a start…all of the boxes and trunks were arranged neatly in a corner around a table. On the top of the table were books, mostly those horrible Gothic Romances, Taranee saw.

The papers there were scattered and all covered in a very familiar looking scrawl. _Irma_, she recognized it as from the letter she had read before.

She had finally picked the lock on one of the trunks when she heard Susan's voice calling the preposterous name that she had given her. _Oh shit._

Deciding that self preservation was more important than whatever was within the trunk, she hastily descended the ladder from the Attic, and ran down the stairs to the foyer.

"Where is she?" Susanna appeared from the parlor door. "Oh there you are! Come, come now, I know that you haven't been feeling very well recently—it's that horrible colonist meat, so I fixed you some stew. It's guaranteed to make you just right."

"Actually, I'm feeling a great deal better than before…" Taranee stammered before being pulled away by the Raven haired woman…who possessed an astonishingly strong grip.

"Nonsense, food poisoning is a dangerous disease!" She hissed, "I should know! It nearly took my life only a few days ago!"

Irma then emerged from the kitchen carrying a bowl of steaming stew on a platter. "Irma is that my stew?" Her mother challenged.

"No, I'm carrying it for Cornelia…since she isn't feeling very well."

"Irma put that back where you found it, I had Cook prepare that for Taranah, she's been food poisoned."

The brunette's rosy face fell noticeably. "But—I—maybe Cornelia needs it more…"

"Cornelia will get chicken soup when it is finished, this is for Taranah, now put it back!"

"But mother!" She protested.

"Irma! Do as I say!"

Visibly reluctant, Irma turned and walked into the kitchen.

"And what is with this sudden concern for your sister?"

"I'm just trying to atone—since she's going to be moving away so soon."

Susanna narrowed her eyes, but didn't say anything. "Enjoy your stew Taranah!" She told the dark skinned woman, indicating to the stew that Irma had just replaced on the table.

Taranee nodded, and lifted the silver spoon to her lips, before swallowing a mouthful of the salty substance. To her surprise Irma watched her movements with her blue eyes wide with fear, when she swallowed the girl had gasped.

"Irma Lair! Enough with these theatrics! Go finish tying the ribbons to the dancing cards, since you want this Ball so badly. And get Will to help you, she should be better by now."

Irma obeyed after casting another weary glance at the bowl of stew. "Isn't it good?" Susan cooed, "the only reason that I hired that man is because his stew is so magnificent— anything else of his will kill you if you eat it, he always complains about me not giving him enough time to boil the foods, but I know better, after all!"

Taranee nodded and swallowed another mouthful of food. _After all_.

* * *

**Author:** Uh oh, Susan knows! Haha! Ah, **that's** not really a big deal though; she might just up her efforts to make Cornelia and Caleb get married sooner. I'll have to decide on that one, and soon we'll have more action between our couple.

I always say that I don't know how good a writer I am, but I can make very strange plots. You'll never figure out my plot unless I want you to. From these 10 chapters, I've finally explained everything that you need to know to figure out what will happen. So feel free to take a guess if you'd like.

For those of you who have tried, sorry, but that's not it.

The "dream" scene above there was actually a part of my sex scene before I changed it. Now it's hotter. HEHEHE! I refuse to change the rating right now because, well, I realized that most if not all of my stories are rated M, and quite frankly, it's a bit shameful.

And what is up with these CxC fans…do they run on sunlight on something? I pop up on this website the other day and what do I see? A million farking Cornelia and Caleb fics staring at me! I'm more of a nocturnal creature…the heat wave is doing NOTHING for me. So far I try to write some part of this story everyday, unfortunately, I've been writing the last few chapters first, hence the delay here.

**Dedicated:** To the WillxCaleb ship. May it rest in peace after being slaughtered by Greg Weisman. Yes, it's true, if you watch the second season Will and Caleb no longer talk to each other (and by the way, yes and no are not suitable conversations), it seems that in a last ditch effort to force Cornelia and Caleb down our throats the writers have destroyed any other relationship that Caleb may have had with other females. Sigh.


	11. Chapter 11

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

Chapter Eleven

* * *

Irma hadn't slept very well last night. Panic, she had recognized wouldn't allow her to sleep. Her plan (although wonderful) had gone terribly wrong—and the consequences were imminent, and not at all appealing.

She had sought solace in prayer that night, hoping that God even in his entire splendor—was at least romantic at heart, and would forgive her, or at least spare her the torment when it arrived come morning.

She had after all, only been trying to help her sister—a girl who was more stubborn and hard headed than most, and who needed this more than anything else in the world, even if she denied it.

She was practically a heroine—a romantic heroine, like Joan Of Arc…or Queen Victoria. She only hoped that God would see things her way.

* * *

Susanna too, had suffered her own misfortunes throughout the night; the wedding was going badly—she still had no dress, well Cornelia could wear one of hers, the last one was only a season or two behind the fashion. And if she really wanted to put the wedding on Saturday, then most of her guests wouldn't be there—only those invited to the ball would be in attendance, as a matter of fact. Well, perhaps that wasn't a horrible situation; after all, did she really need her trifling cousins and siblings there to complicate the situation?

And the cake—that bastard cook wasn't unable to bake anything even slightly edible—and then the wedding rings…

The summer weather had transformed yet again, and now to Susanna, the dark grey skies and freezing cold winds outside mirrored her own stormy feelings. She was frustrated, that was probably the worst outcome of this stress…even with her own weddings she hadn't felt this strung out.

There were pains in her back for God's sake…pains that for once, weren't resulting from her too tight corset. Well, she had that wedding woman to help her at least…she should go see her right now in fact—perhaps she would know what to do about the dress—and the flowers…oh heavens she needed to get flowers for the church…and the church, she hadn't informed the clergy of the wedding yet…

Susanna withheld the urge to run downstairs and devour an entire bottle of Whiskey…this was something that she needed to deal with, it was just for a few more days, she would just have to put up with this for a few more days…when the wedding was over, she could relax. Perhaps a trip to Boston was in order…

"Taranah!" Susanna rapped on the girl's bedroom door. "I need to discuss a few things with you—it's about the flowers; nothing grows in this land to my taste and…"

To her surprise when the door finally opened, it was not Taranah who was standing before her. "Linda?" Susanna's eyes narrowed at the scullery maid, "Exactly what are you doing here—where's the wedding woman—err—Taranah?"

"She's taken ill miss," the young woman dropped her head almost immediately, an action that helped to hide the flush that was creeping along her thin face.

"Well, of course she's ill—that's why I made her take that stew yesterday," Susanna's hawk like gaze roamed across the room, looking for a hiding place—but found none. "Where has she gone?"

"She left early this morning miss, complaining of stomach pains. She has barricaded herself in the outhouse now." And in the tiniest of voices, she added, "in my opinion miss, she's behaving as though she's been given Calomel."

_A purge! _Thought Susanna, but that was absurd. "That's ridiculous, how on earth would she find Calomel?"

Her lips hadn't even completely formed the final syllable before the answer struck her. _Irma_. Oh! That little—

Well, this would explain her behavior yesterday! Concern for her sister…ha! She should have known better, she had been trying to give Cornelia laxatives in that stew!

"Irma Margaret Ann Lair!" Susanna screamed and unseen to her, Linda flinched, trembling at the way that her employer's voice carried around the house. "Where are you?"

And with that she left the poor girl's company—in a rage unlike any that she had ever witnessed. Partly from fright, partly from not knowing what else to do, Linda crossed herself. "Lord Almighty help them all," she whispered.

* * *

It had taken Irma all of two seconds to fully understand the situation. All things considered: she was doomed. Scoffing, Irma sprang from her bed, "So much for praying!"

There would be no explaining this, she knew, in fact she had been waiting for the moment when her mother would grasp all that had happened, by lying fully clothed on the top of her bed. She was prepared to make a get-a-away. _How,_ now _that _was the problem.

Her mother would undoubtedly look in _her_ room first and then the Attic. But the Attic was locked; Irma had discovered that last night when she had thought of hiding herself up there, an idea that had been foiled of course when she couldn't find the keys. So, the plan had been changed: Irma would run to Cornelia's room whilst her mother looked for her in the Attic, during that time she could find somewhere else to hide—after her mother had comprehended that she wasn't on the top floor, she would doubtlessly storm off to Will's room. All she had to do was to avoid these places for the time being, and she would be safe.

Actually, Irma was fairly pleased with herself for her forethought, if only she had had some of this yesterday…

Ducking low, when she heard her mother's footsteps coming towards her, Irma crawled to Cornelia's room next door…and without giving it any further thought, on her hands and knees she crept beneath Cornelia's large four poster bed, and remained there as quietly as she could.

* * *

Will could hardly believe her luck. Even with the depressing weather outside, and the mysterious commotion that was going on within her house, today was by far the best day of her week thus far. Without the aid of alcohol or sedatives, she had _finally _gotten a fair amount of sleep last night…dream free.

It was obvious that she was cured, which was of course, yet another reason to celebrate. But with the rain…there was precious little that she could do to rejoice. After mulling it over, Will decided to go to the Study, where she was certain that she had seen some of her old childhood books upon the shelves when she had last been there—Saturday.

Well, perhaps it wasn't a fete fit for a Duchess, but a nice, nostalgic reminder of the fairies and gnomes that had inhabited her dreams as a girl—was in her world at least, something to look forward to.

Her rapture seemed short lived however, when having taken no more than three steps outside of her bedroom door; she met with the sight of her mother, turning out Irma's bedroom. Ah yes, there would be the commotion.

"Will!" Susanna yelled when she saw her oldest daughter. Without explanation or apology, she asked, "Where is Irma?"

"I don't know." Will answered clearly, feeling now fairly annoyed by her mother's tone and behavior.

"Go get dressed then…it's almost nine o'clock." Despite her preoccupation Susanna had noticed Will's nightdress, she should know better than to go walking about the house in that! Susanna thought to herself, and made a mental note to talk to her about that later—as well as some other things.

"Fine." Will responded, but continued on her way to the Study, intending to retrieve her novel. She was cured, after all, and she wouldn't let her mother ruin her "party" for her.

* * *

Irma had waited until she heard her mother call out for Jeffery. And then for their footsteps as the hurried up the narrow stairways that led to the Attic.

Then, she had crawled from below the still sleeping Cornelia's bed, and ran the rest of the way to Will's bedroom. She figured that she had a few more minutes before she'd be forced to clear out of there as well—and with her mind knotted with desperation, she had decided that Will was the only person in this house who could—or would help her.

* * *

"Will, you have to help me!" Irma hissed pathetically from behind the large mahogany looking glass (this she had dubbed her new hideaway). From where she was sitting Will could just see her sister's large clear blue eyes and rapidly paling complexion. The pieces of this puzzle all seemed to slip into place, when from the third floor their mother bellowed _all six_ of the brunette's names. She sighed inwardly, if only she hadn't seen this before.

"What did you do now? Mother is looking for you." More out of a sense of duty than any actual concern for Irma's safety, Will ear-marked her novel and walked over to the "hiding place".

"Well, Will…" Irma faltered, biting her lip before going on, "I—err—remember when I said that I had one more thing to do to ensure that you and Mister Olsen entered into wedded bliss."

At the mention of his name, Will felt her body tense and her heart shudder; she noticeably swallowed—an action that at any other time would have prompted a barrage of belligerent questions from Irma, but now only caused a small grin to decorate her face. _Cured, are you?_ In a move of forced calm, Will answered simply, "Yes. Why?"

"Well, my—err—plan was to…" She released her next words very, very quickly, in one long pent up breath, "…make Cornelia ill by placing salts in her stew."

"What?" Will's exclamation held equal doses of shock and amusement, but Irma seemed to believe that it meant that she hadn't heard her confession.

"I went," she slowly began, gesturing a walking motion with two of her fingers from her right hand, "to the kitchen and found where mother keeps the salts…"

"I heard you!" Will snapped. "I just never believed that you'd be this stupid!"

"Hey! I did all of this for you!" Irma defended her clearly tactless actions. After all, this was probably one of the most selfless things that the sixteen year old had ever done in her life!

"Oh, don't behave as though I asked you to." Will frowned, a sign of her losing interest in the situation, "I told you to stop what you were doing days ago—hell, I never asked you to start in the first place!"

"Oh yes, that's being grateful." Irma flinched as their mother called for her again, and something ceramic was sent crashing to the floor as a result. Her next sentence drowned in a whimper that came from the back of her throat. "Please, Will."

The elder girl rolled her eyes, but at least, seemed to regain interest in Irma's plight. "So you went for the Calomel and gave it to Cornelia?"

"No, no…" Irma shook her head furiously, "that was the plan…but…I gave the Calomel to Taranah instead."

"The wedding woman?" Will had to clutch her wash stand in order to refrain from toppling over with laughter.

"Don't laugh so loudly, will you!" Irma looked wearily to the bedroom door, "you'll bring mother in here."

"I-I'm sorry." Will sputtered. "So, of course, now mother will most definitely kill you—oh no Irma, death might be too quick, she'll send you to a convent!"

"Oh be quiet! See if I ever do anything for you again!"

"Oh, this just keeps getting better and better doesn't it?" Will slumped to the floor and folded her legs underneath her long night gown.

"I came to you because I knew that the only person who would help me would be someone with less of a conscience than I have…" Irma moved from her hiding place suddenly, ducking behind the vanity instead.

"I have a conscience!" Will replied while still feeling slightly offended that her morals had come into question.

"Really," was the muffled reply, even from behind the barrier, Will could sill sense the skepticism etched into every syllable.

"Yes, right now it's the little voice in my head that's telling me just how stupid your entire idea was!" She pondered for a moment, "or perhaps, that's just simple common sense."

"Are you going to help me or not?"

"All right, go through the window." Will eagerly awaited her sister's undoubtedly furious response. She'd see just how desperate she was.

"Have you been drinking again? I'm not doing that!" Irma emerged from behind the vanity, covered in a shawl of cobwebs and dust. She cringed at the sight of her beloved yellow dress.

"Fine then, get caught." This was the sweetest revenge for all of those days of relentless questioning and sabotage Will decided, so feigning a look of absolute innocence, Will staggered to her feet and opened the great bedroom window.

Cold, hard raindrops saw the breach in the house's defenses as an opportunity to complete their mission of intrepid suicide, and crashed along Will's arms and face when the raging wind propelled them inside. Will startled and jumped back, and when Irma saw this, she of course became, if possible even more reluctant.

"Come on now Irma, you just climb down here and run along over to Mister Potter's barn…Mother hates them, she won't look for you there."

"You could sell salt to a slug…you know that right?"

Irma looked at the gap and by extension the tree outside with growing intensity. All decisions were made however when the repetitive sound of their mother satin slippers descending the stairway made its way into the bedroom.

Will raised a scarlet brow in a wordless challenge to her sister, and just as silently Irma sprang to the window and clamored outside, clutching onto a particularly sturdy branch for dear life. "Good luck!" Will waved her arm in the sincerest of farewells, while inside she was jumping up and down with glee.

"Will—" Irma, now that she was perfectly drenched and her yellow frock had glued itself to her skin (currently appearing nearly transparent), seemed to appear more than repentant for ever listening to his sister's suggestion. "Let me back in…I've changed my mind!" But it was too late; the force of the gale had already sent her words spiraling downwards onto the muddy lawn…and Will had by now shut the window and closed the floral drapes.

She was trapped.

* * *

Inside of the Vandom-Hale-Lair household, the stomping had subsided, and Susanna had finally come 'a rapping on Will's chamber door', currently Will would have preferred the raven, for at least when considering the omen of death one knew what to expect, however such was never the case of her mother: "Wilhelmina Vandom is your bloody sister in there!"

"No mother, she isn't." Somehow knowing that her answer would never be enough to satisfy Susanna, Will took a seat on her bed and waited for the door to swing open.

She was not disappointed, for after a prolonged discussion outside, Susanna had apparently picked the lock and staggered into the room…with Jeffery and two stable boys in her wake.

"Search under the bed." She told one of the stable boys, who threw an apologetic look at Will before he obeyed.

"Mother—what are you doing?" Suddenly aware of her nightdress…the _very sheer_ one that she still had on, Will stiffened. With her face matching the color of her hair, she clutched a handful of he sheets to her body and staggered backwards to the wall, falling a total of two times in her haste and eventually simply crawling into the corner.

"Well Will—you should be dressed by now! I've told you that already." Her mother snapped from inside of the closet, she had begun to pull the dresses from the hangers, each time yelping as though expecting Irma to jump forward from behind the clothes.

Jeffery had wasted no time in searching behind the vanity and the looking glass, and now he moved steadily towards the armoire on the opposite side of the room. The second stable boy however, hadn't moved at all, preferring it seemed, to stand almost perfectly still in the middle of all the commotion and stare, with an expression that was not at all apologetic at the fallen red head.

"Mother!" Will screamed, that got his attention and he hastily moved away to search behind the heavy flowery drapes. "What is it Will?" Susanna emerged from the closet looking scrupulously dissatisfied.

"N-nothing." She stammered, her eyes fell to her bare feet. Well this was simply perfect, how was she supposed to state a complaint about this cad's behavior in his company?

"You shouldn't scream like that, it doesn't show good manners. Now, I know that you know that I know that you know exactly where Irma is, so why don't you make it easier for all of us, and just tell me."

"Now mother—you're babbling. It's a sign of old age." She smirked; she'd show her to bring mysterious men into her bedroom this early in the day!

"_Where _Will!" The violet eyed woman snapped, and for a moment, all three of the men froze in their motions and stared open mouthed at the interaction. Will scoffed as a response, but when that didn't get enough of a reaction from her mother she added: "I am not my sister's keeper."

Now, Susanna looked absolutely murderous. She faced Jeffery, still at the armoire and the two exchanged looks of helpless frustration. It was then that Susanna spotted something that made her return all of her interests to Will once more.

"My dear," she began with a voice that begat pure calm, "your curtains are wet."

Will's heart sank, not from the guilt of lying to her mother about helping her sister escape the wrath that she so obviously deserved, and most definitely not from the fear of knowing that Irma would now (unless she had developed common sense in the last few minutes) be most certainly caught, but from the knowledge that she had failed to outwit her mother yet again.

"It's raining." Will stated simply, and returned her gaze to her toes.

In a moment of newly inspired fury, Susanna rushed forward and pulled the drapes apart, before pressing her face against the misty window pane. Soon satisfied, she walked away, signaling for her three companions to follow her.

"You have been jumping out of that window from the moment that we arrived at this house. It makes sense that you would have passed on the trick to your delinquent sister!" She explained to Will, who by this point would neither look at her nor respond.

"Search the stables." She told Jeffery, and then to the other boys she issued (much like Napoleon must have done in one of his greater battles) the command: "She's already outside by now, but she can't have gotten far. Round up some of the others, we'll find her."

"You know," Will spoke only when her mother's make-shift police force had departed. "If you keep looking for Irma, then she'll keep running. If you had an ounce of sense then you'd stay here, Irma has to come home eventually."

"How very wise of you Wilhelmina, but when you're older, I think that you'll realize that the only way to get what you want is to _chase after it_."

Now, Susanna recognized would have been the perfect time to storm out for dramatic effect, but instead she paused, staring pensively at her ever brooding daughter. She knew that she should ask her about Caleb, or more precisely about their relationship, or what she suspected was their relationship. There were questions that had been pulling at the frayed edges of her mind since yesterday; these were questions that were far too dangerous to go unanswered.

"Will," she began coolly, a tone that was so different from the one that she had been employing only minutes ago that Will's eyes immediately narrowed in suspicion. "Have you been thinking of courtship lately?"

It must have been a full minute before Will replied, and when she did it was in a voice that indicated that she wasn't even going to simulate nonchalance. "No, why are you asking me that?"

"It's only natural, I mean, most girls your age already have beaus and…"

"I'm not most girls, mother. As you are so fond of telling me..." She spoke acidly and then looked away as though fearing her mother's gaze would burn her alive.

Susanna didn't bother to formulate a reply, you see, she already knew, that even if there was nothing going on between Will and Caleb, if she ever dared to ask her about it, then the red head would run off and create something between the two of them—if only to spite her mother.

No, it was better to leave this all alone; at least until one of them was in better spirits.

"Well then, I have to go look for your sister, the one that you let escape. And don't you think that I'm letting you off so easily Wilhelmina. You lied to me and gave Irma a means to escape. Your punishment is to stay in your room for the rest of the day."

"Fine," Will grumbled, "it's raining anyway."

"Good." Susanna said, and then shut the door behind her before going downstairs to join the search for Irma. Well, one girl was locked upstairs and the other was probably half way to Jamestown by now. This would be the perfect time to create a romantic situation between the engaged pair.

"Jeffery," she called the older man just as he was preparing to walk out of the door. "Oh use the back door would you; I don't want the neighbors to see this."

"My apologies your highness," the old man risked both arthritis and rheumatism in order to bow to his employer.

Susanna ignored him completely. "Look, never mind the stables. Go find Caleb—err—tell him that he should visit Cornelia today in the study, in fact, tell him that it's an un-chaperoned visit, that should get him here quicker."

"Madame…" Even Jeffery seemed appalled by this latest strategy, "…un-chaperoned?"

"Yes, yes." Susanna waved his concerns away with the flick of her wrist. "The situation has become increasingly dire—I shall go alert Cornelia, tell those boys to begin the search without me."

Jeffery nodded and hurried as fast as his knotted knees and ailing back could carry him, to the servant's door in the back of the house. "Isn't she awake yet?" Susanna wondered aloud as she moved towards Cornelia's bedroom. "You would think that she was dying…really, the amount of time that she sleeps."

* * *

It wasn't so that Cornelia had _wanted _to get out of bed—for in all honesty, she still felt a bit…under the weather. It had been more of her mother's doing that she had been forced out of her bed and furthermore pushed into a day dress before she had even regained the good sense to complain.

"Mother," Cornelia protested drowsily as her mother hastily continued running a brush through her long golden hair. "It's my monthlies you know—and I still feel terrible, not to mention that I'm far too unclean to be in the presence of a man."

"Child, what on earth are you talking about?" From what she could see of her mother's reflection in her vanity mirror, Cornelia recognized the symptoms of frustration as drawn onto her face. She looked tired—and old—her once flawless complexion seemed pasty and sickly. _In fact_, thought Cornelia, _I'm the one feeling sick, and yet she looks far worse than I do._

"I just don't understand why your monthlies come like this. Irma's and Will's practically come on the same day and mine the week after that—yours should be closer to ours. And where is that damn Emily? I can't get your hair…" She fumbled a minute longer with the thick knot of hair before groaning in frustration and allowing it to fall haplessly over the blonde's thin shoulders, without missing a beat, she reached inside of her bosom and withdrew a glass vial filled with a dark liquid—and swallowed the contents in one gulp.

Cornelia's face contorted in an expression of worry—it was a selfish worry, based on the fact that she hated the sick and being in their company, and also based on the truth that she was absolutely terrified of being without her mother…and death so often accompanied sickness.

"Mother," she spoke gently, "are you—all right?"

Susanna had fallen to the disordered bed, and seated herself; much like a queen would on her makeshift throne of blankets and pillows. At the sound of Cornelia's voice, she appeared to have been roused from some cavern of thought and she stared blankly ahead for a long time before answering simply: "Yes, yes—I'm fine Cornelia."

The blonde hadn't really expected any other answer, but in some way, she knew that it was most likely a falsehood. Still, she didn't probe the topic any longer either…for despite what her sister's might think of her, Cornelia knew that the truth was most likely something that she didn't need to hear very often.

"The only reason my monthlies came at such a despicable time this month mother—is because you insisted that I go for walks and a picnic…the air disagrees with my tender disposition."

"Well, luckily for you then it's raining today, so I've arranged for a meeting in the Study with Caleb." Cornelia nodded, truthfully she rather enjoyed Mister Olsen's company, and he was such a tentative listener— and the verity that he wasn't bad to look at either, was of course, an added bonus. "It's un-chaperoned, so be mindful of your situation."

"Un-chaperoned?" Cornelia stammered, praying to the Good Lord in heaven that she had misheard the last statement. When such hope proved false she continued in a voice of righteous anger mixed with a twinge of mutiny, "you must have gone mad—what about my reputation—if any one of those servant girls talk—I'll be ruined!"

"Stop it Cornelia!" Her mother snatched the hairbrush from whence she had discarded it, and began to tease the knots in her daughter's flaxen mane once more. "You are engaged—it's permitted."

"But mother—"

"He's a good man Cornelia dear—and anything—disrespectful that he tries, well, you just tell me and—"

"You'll have him banished from the house?" Cornelia felt her troubles lessen slightly, at any rate; her reputation would remain in tact—(unlike Irma's) if the cause of the blemish was removed from the property.

"No! Of course not! He's a fine match, you know." Susanna shook her head in a move that showed her concern for her middle offspring's lack of prudence. "If he does anything—shifty—I'll find a way that we may blackmail him for it, and force the wedding up a few more days—Saturday looks good, don't you agree?"

"I do not agree!" If a sudden stomach cramp hadn't just overwhelmed her, Cornelia would have jumped to her feet in order to preach to her mother the difference between right and wrong. "What are you thinking mother? Are you going bankrupt or something? At first, I thought that Irma was just being jealous—but now, _why are you _rushing this wedding?"

"It's for the best Cornelia." With one final stroke of the brush, Susanna surrendered all hope of ever getting Cornelia's hair into a style that looked ever remotely fashionable, and so she allowed the girl's waist length hair to tumble freely past the girl's back, telling her just how pretty she looked with the gorgeous locks about her face so.

Flattery was the easiest way to any woman's heart—as everyone knows, and Cornelia's heart was no exception. Still, before submitting completely, she muttered just so that her mother could hear and then hopefully repent. "But is a wedding worth selling our souls for Mother?"

Cornelia had long returned her gaze to the large vanity mirror when he mother had finally found an answer, and perhaps that was for the best…for if Cornelia had ever heard the whispered "yes" that had just escaped her mother's parted lips—then the conversation would have gone in the most…_unfortunate_ direction.

* * *

_Oliver Twist_ seemed a great deal shorter that Will had recalled. Well, she supposed that it wasn't so much of a surprise, seeing as she had practically memorized the novel years ago at school. After her mother's hasty departure Will had gotten dressed, wearing, in an act of straightforward insurgence, the detestable green frock with the ridiculous idea that should her mother see her—that—slowly the urge had faded away and well, now, despite the countless times that she had employed this tactic in her lifetime—the idea suddenly seemed rather childish in her mind.

The rain outside hummed their miserable tune against the window panes and walls…searching and with little success for an audience other than the grey, pathetic sky that had borne them. It was a terrible day, Will decided. And being locked inside of her terribly ugly room was no cure to the monotony that was ailing her.

She had heard a woman tell her once, when she was a great deal younger and had first taken ill with whooping cough, that the human body could only have one disease at a time; a quote that her Mother upon hearing it, had taken to heart since that day.

At the time the medicine woman (for her mother had never trusted physicians) had poured a diluted acid onto her back in order to drive the cough away—and according to her mother, it had worked, obviously because she hadn't died.

So now, Will wondered if the same was true for emotions. For earlier today, when she had been defeated by the torrent of humiliation and anger, Will had been glad that her mother had decided to lock her away. Solitude, of course was one of her favorite past times. But now, perhaps a good hour afterwards, Will could only think about how much she hated being caged within her room.

The weather did nothing to help of course, for when she tried to relieve herself by looking at the countless raindrops…the thought of Mister Olsen…kissing…no, wait, _accosting_ her in the storm those nights ago, returned to her mind. To her absolute displeasure—upon the third time that such distasteful images had entered into her psyche, her body had lost the urge to feel revolted by them.

Instead, she had fallen, helplessly, it appeared, into a series of daydreams…all of which had pathetically ended with him…accosting her again.

"I was cured!" She whined, but refused to accept her defeat. Stubborn until the very end, Will gallantly attempted to block out the source of her hedonistic fantasies, by blocking out the rain. She pulled her still damp drapes closed, divulging herself in complete darkness. It didn't help much, for in the darkness the song of the rain had intensified, and quite frankly it currently bordered on driving her to complete madness.

"I need to go for a walk." Will decided. Yes, a nice long walk around the house would clear her mind—after all had she not decided that Mister Olsen was a repugnant dog not worthy of her time? But then he had helped her to find her shoes…

_And what difference does that make? Your shoes…really. A Dalmatian could have helped you find your shoes, why, you weren't even that drunk to begin with._ Will mutely agreed with her conscience, it was right after all. Allowing herself to succumb to the tangle of liquid emotions that were still consuming her chest, was dangerous—she didn't even understand why she cared so much about his presence, or why she spent so much of her time thinking about him.

In fact, she didn't want to understand. Most definitely not! Understanding would lead to discovery…which would lead to…something that she was _afraid_ to face. He had insulted her; he had used her…and now, was she really ready to forgive him simply because he had helped her find her shoes?

Oh no, Wilhelmina Vandom wasn't that stupid. He was getting married to her sister, he would be her brother-in-law in a about a week, maybe even sooner if her mother got her way. She couldn't—wouldn't deal with this.

Maybe a walk wouldn't be enough—Will decided, no a stop at the Study was most certainly in order, she had suddenly developed an urge to peruse _The Swiss Family Robinson._ Now _that_ she hadn't bothered to memorize.

A journey to the door, proved to put an unexpected roadblock in her plans however…for apparently, her mother had foretold this happening, and had locked her in. Well, that wouldn't do at all; forcibly ignoring the annoyance that could so easily cloud her decisions, Will instead put all of her energy into creating a counter-plan.

Of course, her frustrations didn't last long, indeed only seconds later Will was smiling, for you see it had suddenly appeared obvious to her, that her mother would only lock _one_ of the doors—for she knew that the middle aged woman would never remember to bar, bolt or barricade the door that joined her bedroom to Susanna's. It was a door that Will hadn't even used only once in her life, but of course, she had never forgotten its existence.

Her plan proved triumphant, and soon Will had made her way into the hallway, and had started on her expedition to the Study. Really Mother, Will thought, you should at least attempt some sort of creativity.

* * *

Caleb had only ever seen an animal drown once. Well, it wasn't even so much of an animal as it was a rodent, and he had been six. The image however had stuck with him through all of his life, and he often times recalled it with a mixture of revulsion of pity. But today—this morning, when Jeffery had darkened his doorway to inform his that "her majesty" had decided that he spend some_ un-chaperoned _time with his fiancé, the man had reminded Caleb—vividly, in fact of the afore mentioned drowned rat.

Truthfully, he couldn't even imagine being less interested in spending time with that blonde woman—Cornelia. He had questioned the girl; there was no need to spend any more time with her. But as Taranee had preached to him on several occasions, they had a job to do, and out of the fear that the black woman would suddenly become inspired to remove his genitals should he disobey her—he had bitterly followed the old man along the muddy path that led to the main house.

And it had been such a wonderful day so far—for not only had Taranee apparently lost whatever pleasure she had garnered in assailing him with difficult questions and haughty, unhelpful advice; but he had finally reached an epiphany where that girl was concerned.

Sometime this morning he realized what the problem had been: he had been going about the situation badly. Well, wrongly. In his attempts to ignore and even avoid her, he had let his mind create lucid fantasies of her—the worst of which had come last night—where, well he had awoken in a very _uncomfortable _situation. God, even now the recollection of that dream sent shivers through his veins—truthfully he had just been glad that Taranee hadn't been there to comment on his—dilemma.

So, obviously the solution to this equation wasn't to overlook her. Rather, any fantasy of her had to be better than the actual thing, and so with that decision made, Caleb had decided that he would ignore her no longer. No, he would talk to her if he had to—after all, knowing her temperament, she'd probably just attack him for the effort, and his problem would be solved. The spell she had cast on him (a spell that involved spices and wine) would be broken, and then he could move along, carefree to his next mission sometime by the end of this week.

And even if, he was still dim-witted enough to think about her after all of that (something that he had allowed himself to consider, since she had previously kicked him, thrown a bottle at him, and seriously considered bludgeoning him to death with two novels, and he had still wanted her) then, at least he would have allowed himself the distinct satisfaction of her company, which would at least result in his peace of mind. Whatever it was that had attracted him to her in the first place, it would fade, just as all infatuations did. Whether they faded with time or liquor or other women, they all went away. His father had told him that—when shown him rather than told him.

Well, whatever, that didn't jeopardize its credibility.

* * *

They arrived at the massive brick house far too slowly in Caleb's opinion. By the time they had stopped in the verandah, Caleb was certain that Jeffery wasn't the only one who now resembled a sodden rodent.

Soon after Jeffery had unlocked the front door to allow them both access to the foyer, his attention had been drawn to a commotion that seemed to have originated outside. "What is—" Caleb looked at Jeffery; expecting to see a similar mask of confusion of the white haired man's wrinkled face. Instead a look of cold indifference greeted his eyes.

"That would be the Missus," he stated, and surely enough, at that very moment, that blurred outline of a black carriage rounded the corner and hastened towards the gate of the estate.

"But…" Speechless, not for the first time, Caleb still required an answer for the question of who would pick today for a carriage ride. "Is something wrong?" He questioned the butler, who shrugged simply before answering, "Irma, the youngest poisoned the wedding woman and then ran away. The Missus intends to find her soon."

Of course. Well, he most definitely hadn't needed an answer after all. "Your fiancé will meet you in the Study."

"I can find it myself." Caleb stated in response to the older man's implied offer to show him the room. "Irma—gave me a tour of the house."

He seemed satisfied, turned and then disappeared into the dimness that infested the back of the house.

* * *

**Author**: Aw crap. Unknown to me, the story was too farking long so I had to edit out some of it. More making out is coming your way, I swear little ones...and so are Yan Lin and Hay Lin. I just didn't want the 10,000 word chapter. And Calomel is a laxative, if you didn't pick that up…

Well this is a short set of babbling. Just keep reviewing guys, I really appreciate your thoughts, especially now that the show has snatched away all of my proof and inspiration, I require you guys for that now.

**Dedicated:** To AkaOkamiRyu, Ryous Rayne, hells agent and Gaby's heart.


	12. Chapter 12

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

Chapter Twelve

* * *

How quiet the house seemed when her mother was absent. It was as though some great, caged entity had found a way to escape its prison, taking with it all the feelings of pessimism that had accompanied it. It was eerie almost, Will decided: the way that even the tiniest of sounds could by magnified with silence. Only the angry sounds of a distant thunderclap and the continuous applause of the slow rain disrupted her thoughts.

Although she was glad for the disruption—even if it was only a momentary one; with her mind focused on the rain, it couldn't focus on other…_things_.

_Things_ that would (and could) very easily lead to damnation; eternal and unforgiving...an after life of perpetual desolation, spent suffering in the fiery pits of hell below. Will had never in her life paid much attention to the Sunday morning sermon at church, but she was fairly certain that lusting after your brother-in-law was a sin. Maybe it was even written down as one of those twelve commandments.

Hell had never worried Will much before; truly, in her short life when her mother had described hell to her, something that occurred whenever she disobeyed her orders (whether those orders be to tidy her room or to sit up straight) Will had always ignored her, and scoffed at her description of an everlasting fire that was confined to an endless pit.

Perhaps that was because, at that time, she hadn't understood the true meaning of torture, then, fire, and even brimstone hadn't seemed too horrible, and she had never been very afraid of the darkness…but now that her perception of torture had changed; Will found herself unnaturally terrified of such a fate, a fate that she was now more certain than ever belonged to her.

Suffering, Will now knew, was having your thoughts focused on something that you hated—for almost every moment of the day. And what was worse than suffering, was torture—which was realizing that maybe (just maybe) you didn't hate such thoughts as much as you had previously thought. In fact, maybe, you actually enjoyed them.

Yes, now Will had realized the truth: she was going to burn in hell for such thoughts, and in hell, she would be plagued with these thoughts for all of time. It was a horrible situation, one that Will quite frankly, felt far too helpless to fix.

She had tried avoiding him, she had tried ignoring him…and that hadn't worked. But what else could she do?

Will sighed and shook her head, physically attempting to push such thoughts from her confused and desperate mind. There really wasn't any other choice, she would just have to keep ignoring and avoiding him—because really there sadly wasn't any other solution.

'_Keep calm Will.'_ Her conscience cooed, '_just stay in your room for the rest of his stay here and you'll be just fine.'_

Wait, but hadn't this been her plan before? Had it not failed miserably already? '_Well Will,_ _the second time is a charm!'_ The inner voice said, '_how can the same plan fail twice, after all!'_

Well, that did make some sense…God couldn't hate her that much as to make her wonderful plan fail again. Will nodded, feeling a tad less anxious; things would soon start to get better.

* * *

The Study door was already ajar when she arrived, something that Will had thought, for at least a second, was a little strange. But with her mind currently elsewhere, she hadn't really given the open door that much attention, briefly deciding that one of the cleaning girls must still be inside polishing.

So, carefully she had pushed open the door, just a bit more, creating a larger space to poke her body through and had then begun to look around to see if her theory had been right, when…Her heart had stopped…Well, metaphorically anyway, but she had to admit, it still had felt very literal when she had seen, of all people: him.

_I must have killed a lot of people in my last life,_ Will thought, her inward voice had managed to remain calm…Although inside, she was squirming.

Her insides and hence; panic eventually won out.

_Oh shit._ Not _him_…_not now_. At the sight of his perpendicular figure, resting oh-so-casually against the wall…Will felt her resolve desert her. It was so much easier to speak of bravery when one was far away from the enemy, but now, face to face, she had fallen through the holes in her façade.

'_The plan, you idiot!'_ Her conscience snapped, now also overwhelmed by the horror.

So it was obvious, she wasn't healed; she wasn't ready to face him because she knew, instinctively that if she did, whatever sanity she had regained would abandon her in an instant.

He however seemed completely unaware of her company; his eyes hadn't left the foggy window pane, he was apparently lost in thought—his profile was darkened by a shadow of contemplation—_you are staring and not running_, Will reminded herself, so without further delay, she made a flawless one eighty turn…only to collide with the still open door.

That got his attention.

"Hello." He stated simply, plainly and (to her annoyance) without the slightest bit of hesitation.

Clutching her swollen nose, Will turned to face him, knowing that she must look stupid, pathetic and of course _red_. Still, she managed to convince her trembling lips and over-excited breath to echo his greeting.

Feeling that she should, at least _try _to retain some form of pride in this situation, Will pulled her hand away from her throbbing nose and spoke with all of the coldness that she could muster. "I left my book here, and I just came to get it—"

He shrugged before interrupting, "it's your house Miss Vandom. You don't need to explain to me what you're doing in here."

His words were spoken with the same coldness that she had tried so hard to imitate only moments before, this fact only served to annoy her further, and for once the frustration was directed at herself rather than at him: _Do you see how stupid you are by actually thinking about this…idiot? He is easily the most conceited and infuriating man on the planet—and yet here you are day dreaming about him! Obviously, you should stop it now!_

Her conscience was screaming bloody murder in her ears, which, added to the throbbing emanating from the center of her face, caused the aggravation in her veins to multiply by ten. Putting aside her plan of retreat for now (she wouldn't have given him the satisfaction of knowing that she had run away from him in any case) Will replied, with her eyes focused on the window behind him: "Well, of course not! I was just stating _what _I was doing here in case you decided to…conjure up the belief that my presence had something to do with you."

_Damn it_, Will cursed silently; her rebuttal had been sadly devoid of any insults.

"And why would I do that?" He turned to face her before folding his arms across his chest—why hadn't she noticed just how broad his shoulders were until now? _Stop it!_

Glad that he at least couldn't read her thoughts, but still fearful that he would be able to see some of her tormented emotions in her face, Will dropped her gaze to the highly polished floor. "You are obviously so good at avoiding me—or rather ignoring me."

Ha! So she had been successful in masking her emotions. This sole thought cheered her up immensely: "Well, I'm glad that you noticed…you bigheaded Neanderthal." Oh yes, that was good one, she congratulated herself. For a moment she considered allowing her eyes to leave the sanctuary of the floor—but decided against it based on the argument that they would most likely focus on some other part of his anatomy—_which would be bad_, her conscience snapped.

To her surprise (and subsequent discomfort) he didn't respond, in doing so, he caused an unspoken awkwardness to take control of the atmosphere, sending shivers along Will's neck and hands. "I-I'm leaving now." She told the room, and by extension…him.

Once again she turned, this time mindful of the massive oak door that could, and probably would decapitate her if she ran into it again. But his words held her back. "What about your book?"

She'd forgotten about that. And so another hole in the façade had been discovered she noted grimly. "It isn't worth it."

* * *

Caleb stared at her narrow back with a type of painful deliberation; words strained terribly against his closed lips; words that were begging to be said. _Stay_, was the first one…after that came a jumbled mess of phrases that truthfully made no sense. They would make even less sense out in the open, he realized…so, led by the same pride that she had so often accused him of, he kept his mouth shut.

So much for his wonderful plan—yes, it seemed that yet another night of sordid dreams was in order, he laughed inwardly; it was strange how nothing seemed to go right when he was around her.

"Do you know that you say the most interesting things when you're drunk?" Something crept through his defenses—something inside of him had obviously decided that there was no need to send the entire plan to hell just because the first draft, the simple version, was ineffective. After all, Rome wasn't built in a day.

Well, the second draft had worked, as he knew it would, for she paused in mid-step and snapped, with discontent hidden beneath each word: "When will you understand that I was never drunk?"

"Fine, then loose lipped," by now, he could feel a smile beginning to attack the corners of his mouth.

"Why would I tell you anything?" Finally, she turned right around to look at him dead in the eye. If it was a challenge; he met it head on. "You tell me."

"I-I really wouldn't…" she stammered—ah, he was getting under her skin, a place that he, quite unfortunately, was accustomed to being.

"I thought that you were leaving."

That did it. Her eyes narrowed in one quick motion, and he was certain that if looks could really kill, he would have dropped dead right that instant; the unfortunate victim of her coffee colored gaze. "Don't bring me back in here and then ask me why I haven't left yet!"

Well, that was sadly, very true. In his desperation to keep her here, he was behaving very stupid, maybe he should have just gone with the pleading. "Then go." He mumbled.

She didn't seem to hear him, or else (and more likely) she simply chose to overlook his order. "Do you sit around every night before you go to sleep and plan just what you'll put me through?"

Actually, it had been more of this morning that he had planned this; his nights were usually dedicated to staring up at his ceiling trying to ignore the fact that everything in his bloody house smelt like her. "Now who is being _arrogant_? And I said that _you should go._"

"Don't tell me what to do!"

"Well, you said that you were leaving anyway." He replied, prying his gaze away from her face. Why was this always so hard? Any other girl would have been given him at least some hint on how to woo her by now. But she was…

Finally overcome by his insolence she snapped, "Well, fine!"

"Fine…" he returned his gaze to the foggy window pane, and returned his thoughts to what he had been previously contemplating: her. Eh, maybe that wasn't such a good idea; after all, he'd have more than enough of that tonight.

He had already resigned himself to (what was in his mind) a fate worse than death, when he had noticed her distorted reflection whirl to face him. His eyebrows knitted together in confusion, but he didn't look at her directly.

"Why are you like this?" Now, he recognized the sound of defeat in her voice—he had heard her sound this confused only once before, and that had been when she had asked him _why_ he'd kissed her, and of course, that had gone _so_ well…

"One second you're actually…nice, and then…and then, you're like this!"

_Nice? _Now that, he hadn't been expecting; when had he ever been _nice_ to her? He worded his baffled assessment, and then watched her reaction from his makeshift mirror.

"Well," her voice faded away. "You helped me look for my shoes on Saturday…"

Her whispered confession tugged at something in his chest—and it kept pulling and yanking until it finally destroyed the knot completely. There was no real way that she actually considered _that_—something so irrelevant that he hadn't even bothered to give it more than a few moments of deliberation—an act of _kindness_.

"Maybe we just got off on the wrong foot." He offered her as an explanation; he really couldn't manage anything better than the overused phrase, seeing as he was still stunned.

"Well, maybe that's not such a bad thing." Were she the type to explain her statements, Will would have gone into a long exposition about how the right foot had thus far meant him kissing her…or holding her, which she was very much against.

"Well, you know. You're exactly the same way." Clearing his throat, he faced her—ignoring the feelings of defenselessness that threatened to swamp him.

"I am not." She replied flatly.

"Of course you are. I can actually have a conversation with you when you're drunk—oh never mind—_loose lipped_, but when you're sober…well you behave like this."

"I was never drunk." She crossed her arms and cocked her head—actions that to him suggested mockery of his pose. "Which means that if you put in some effort, we could have a conversation any time that you wanted, I say _you_ because _I_ would never want to converse with _you_."

What the hell? He was putting in some effort now! What more did she want? "Ah, you see that; _an insult._ If you were drunk, you would have never done that."

"Well…" to his surprise she actually looked a bit abashed, "…if you were a more respectful and modest individual, I would be less inclined to insult you."

"It always comes back to my character."

She nodded enthusiastically. "Your lack of morals causes me to fear for your immortal soul."

He laughed at that, she looked startled by the sound. "So, if I promise to behave myself—and you promise to get drunk then we could—"

"Then I could invite you to my bedroom to—" her face paled when she realized how corrupt what she had just uttered must have sounded. "I-I mean that…"

"Oh, _my_ immortal soul is in peril is it?" He laughed.

"No, it's not like that!" Looking extremely flustered, her eyes roamed the floor for some sort of explanation, finally she decided that the truth would have to suffice; "I'm forced to stay there for the day and…it just came to my mind…that's all."

"_Right_."

"You are so arrogant." Will countered, mainly because it was the only thing that she could think of to save her in this disconcerted state—an assault thrown at his personal flaws. But even as she said it, she knew that this time, the words held a lot less sting than in all of her previous attacks. She swallowed; damn it, why the hell was he being so nice? It would be so much easier to hate him if he just behaved more like that jackass she had met that day at the pond.

"So you keep telling me," he shrugged, smiling slightly at her (something that when she noticed it, caused her face to redden and her gaze to drop), "but then again, it is something that I should work on, since you aren't the first person to comment on it."

"Good," Will brightened. "You see now, I say these things for your benefit."

He looked at her with a dubious expression, one that she shook off with a sarcastic, "Well, I do."

"So then are we going?" He questioned suddenly, and confused, Will looked at his face. "Going where?"

"To your chambers, where you invited me…" he spoke to her as though she were some small child, or some senile old woman—either way, it was very insulting.

"I did no such thing!" Will snapped, causing Caleb to laugh again. Will frowned at the sound—she wasn't funny; so then what was he laughing at? Oh right—she had run head on into a very solid, very visible door—the memory of that would bring a smile to the lips of a corpse, she imagined. _Good for you Will,_ her conscience chided, _you've become a laughing stock._

"You said that if I behaved and you were drunk, then we could go, right?"

She nodded mutely, not liking the direction that this conversation was going at all. "And since you claim to have never been drunk; we can go."

Her mouth almost fell open at his cunning. "Ha! As if I'd trust you to behave! Even now, you've—_tricked me_—into inviting you to my bedroom. It's very dastardly."

"You have such a low opinion of me."

"No, I have such a low opinion of your—itch."

He groaned. "Are you going to keep bringing that up?"

"Yes, I fully intend to!" Will declared, and at that time, filled with malice, she believed it to be the truth.

"Well, then I swear that I won't lay a hand on you."

Will was still unconvinced, mainly because she didn't trust her self control in his presence either—even now, she had to force her thoughts to remain on the conversation, instead of allowing them to roam into that frivolous fancy of his kisses and caresses…"That's not enough!" Will blinked forcibly to clear her mind, "you have to swear on something…or it doesn't count."

Understanding dawned upon his face, "well then on my _honor_—"

"What _honor_?" She interrupted.

He flinched, and her insides wavered. "I-I meant that you should swear on something tangible…like a book…or the bible…or a grave."

"Or a wall?"

"No, not a…" she stared at him—forcing down the peals of laughter that were making their way up her throat, yet somehow she managed a withering look. "No, not a wall; this just proves Mister Olsen how seriously you are taking our friendship."

"A wall is _fine_ Miss Vandom, since my honor isn't good enough." He pressed his hand against the flowery patterned wall. "I solemnly swear, on the walls of this house that I will not lay a hand on you. Are you satisfied?"

"No. Not really." She managed, there was still the tiny matter that she still couldn't trust herself—but clearly, she couldn't let him know that. "Why…why do you want to come with me so badly?"

His amused expression faded before being replaced by one of consideration. "Well, if you must know…I have been sent here to await the arrival of your sister."

"Cornelia?"

"Yes. And what's worse is that your mother has no such worries about my ethics. She hasn't sent a chaperone. I was hoping that since we are _so close_, that you would take me away from such a fate."

"I though that you liked her. Because if you don't, you'll be in trouble the wedding is…"

"The wedding doesn't worry me."

Her expression softened considerably, oh right—it was an _arranged_ marriage. _He didn't have to like her._

"So do we have an agreement?"

"I suppose…" Will relented, while inside, her conscience protested with a reviewed passion.

"Good." He smiled and straightened up, before walking towards her. She carefully avoided his eyes. _God_, if anyone ever found out about this—well, Irma in the closet wouldn't seem so terrible, she imagined. She felt the heat from his body long before he had drawn very near. For the first time in her life, her thoughts lingered on her dress—maybe she should have worn something nicer…

_You, my child—are ruined._ Her conscience predicted ominously, before finally conceding to defeat and skulking away into the dark fortress of Will's mind.

* * *

The short walk down the corridor seemed much longer than it should…mainly because of her heightened awareness of Mister Olsen at her shoulder. So consumed was she with thoughts of him that she failed to remember that her bedroom door was locked—or rather blocked.

"You must be joking…" Will mumbled, unashamedly staring, slack jawed at her mother's sheer determination to keep her trapped within her room—a desire that was apparently so powerful that she had pushed Irma's armoire from her room to Will's door, successfully trapping her inside.

"When you said that you were forced to stay inside of your room—I didn't think that—"

"I didn't either." Will added, currently overcome by confusion; what was her mother _thinking_? Brushing it off as yet another stupid antic, she led Caleb into her mother's room and then through the narrow corridor that led to her precious space at the edge of the house.

"And I thought that my room was revolting." He stated upon his arrival.

Seeing the mess that Susanna had created from her 'searching' this morning (the mess that Will had viciously refused to clean), Will said to Caleb, "She did this too, if you're wondering."

"No…I meant the walls." Will followed his gaze, and smiled slightly at her mistake. Even her room hadn't escaped her mother's mid-life crisis, when she had decided that each and every inch of her home should resemble a garden…

"Well," Will walked over to her bed, and tensely took a seat, "it was worse for the man who was in here while I was sick."

"What man?" Caleb maneuvered a path through the debris before coming to a stop next to her massive window, Will watched as he walked—reluctantly fascinated by the motion, and when he looked at her again, she discovered that her mouth was dry.

"Ph-Phobos," Her voice was strangely high pitched, and inside of her mind, her conscience groaned.

Caleb's face changed ever so slightly at the mention of his name, but he recovered just as quickly. "You were sick?"

"Oh yes, measles." She winced at the memory, "actually…I was in the same cottage that you're in now."

Well, that explained the scent at least. Caleb made a grand effort to look surprised by this new bit of information. Actually, this entire conversation was slowly moving into a treacherous direction—he should put a stop to it immediately.

Well, in a second later, he didn't need to.

Even after her mother's long lecture about the importance of securing Mister Olsen's emotions, Cornelia still hadn't been too eager to leave her room. She was in pain after all! And potential damage to her flawless reputation was not a very potent sedative. So when her mother had suddenly run off to look for Irma…Cornelia had yielded to temptation and collapsed atop of her massive bed.

But the aches had subsided, and finally Cornelia had pried herself from her bed, and made her way to the Study—only to find out that her fiancé hadn't been there. Now in the blonde's mind there were only two reasons why anything went wrong in this house: reason number one was Irma; the second explanation was always Will.

Since Irma had apparently become a fugitive, sending most, if not all of the house on a wild goose chase, it had become apparent to her that option number two was the cause indeed.

Ignoring the discomfort in her stomach, Cornelia pounded on Will's…Well the armoire that blocked Will's door from her sight. What? _An armoire_! How on earth?

"Will!" She (completely out of character) yelled. "Will, you come out here this instant!"

It was a delayed reaction, for one thing Cornelia's impatient voice had to work its way around the armoire, under the door and then finally into the room to reach Will's ears.

Will for her part in this journey, simply scowled at her sister's tone before indicating to Caleb that he should go into her closet.

He frowned, and she cocked an eyebrow in a wordless dare that was more effective than any verbal push that she could have given. Defeated, Caleb skulked over to the tiny room, it was only then that Will thought that it was safe to answer her sister.

"Yes, Cornelia."

"Wilhelmina Vandom!" Cornelia screeched. Still Will had to draw in closer to the door to get a good listen, "where is he?"

"Where is who?" Will, feigning ignorance asked.

"What?" Was the baffled reply.

"I said; where is who?" Will repeated, louder this time since she didn't wish to endure the consequence of having the same discussion with Cornelia _twice_.

"My husband!" Had this been a face-to-face talk, Will would have gone into the flaws of Cornelia's sentence, such as: the fact that she had no husband, and would have also added some lewd comment about Irma being with her fiancé…however, given that there was probably six feet of solid wood blocking her and the blonde, Will decided to let it pass—this time.

"I don't know." She screamed back.

"You're lying!" Cornelia replied. Now, Will realized just how stupid they both must look.

"Cornelia, I am trapped inside of this room, as you can clearly see! Now how am I supposed to know where Mister Olsen is?"

A thoughtful silence followed her words as Cornelia chewed over their meaning. "Well he isn't where he's supposed to be. Do you think that he and Irma…" Will didn't know if she had trailed off or simply stopped yelling, but she decided to crush the idea now, lest Cornelia allow it to fester in her mind for too long.

"Yes, I'm sure that he probably went with Mother to look for Irma!"

"I doubt it—Mother was with me this morning and she didn't mention that."

"So are you feeling better?" Since Will couldn't figure out any more excuses, she decided that the next best option was to change the subject. And what was better to discuss with Cornelia—than Cornelia?

"Oh, heavens no!" Cornelia took the bait, and launched happily into a long description of how terrible her monthlies were, concluding with the thought that they were some form of punishment from the Almighty for being born a woman. She would have gone on, Will assumed, but at that moment a horrible cramp shook her body, causing even her knees to tremble.

"What's wrong?" Will, hearing the groan questioned.

"It's my stomach." She managed, before her voice transformed into yet another grunt.

"What?" Will responded, "I didn't catch that last bit!"

Cornelia rolled her eyes. "Will, I'm going back to my room! Mister Olsen is bound to show up later."

"Oh, yes, yes. You just go get some rest!"

"I'll do that!"

With an ear pressed against the wall, Will listened as Cornelia's fashionably attired feet dragged heavily on the carpet as she made her way to her bedroom.

Sighing, the red head trudged over to the closet, and upon seeing the smirking Mister Olsen inside, she pointed at him and seriously declared: "I demand payment for that!"

"My company is its own reward." He noted with a grin that made Will want to knock him over and melt into a puddle at his feet all at the same time.

"And so, exactly what would the men of this world think of you hiding from your fiancé and having me, a poor, feeble female fight your battles for you?" Will narrowed her eyes and mutely challenged him, she hoped that she at least _appeared _stern, because inside, her stomach was churning, her blood was racing and her heart was trying valiantly to escape from her body—through her throat.

"Well, since you are anything but a poor, feeble female, and your mother is a lunatic…no offense…I think that they would congratulate me on my initiative."

Well, that did it, Will found herself smiling at his ridiculous suggestion, but composing herself she said; "Something tells me that I should feel very insulted by that."

"No, no, an insult would be what you've told me on several occasions, not _that_."

"Well…" she stuttered, "…you deserved it."

"I'm keeping my word now, aren't I?"

Will leaned against the door frame and then answered, "so far."

He shrugged, "well I see now that there is nothing that I can do to change your opinion of me."

Which of course made her feel terrible; and so she tried to make up for her harshness by complimenting him—well trying to: "Well, all right…you've been very good so far…and maybe you aren't as big an insufferable, arrogant swine as I first thought."

"Well, what the hell was that?"

Disregarding the humor etched into his words, Will went on the defensive. "You should learn to accept a compliment."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"Yes it was!" She retorted, glaring at him as though daring him to tell her that it wasn't again.

"Well, then if that was your idea of a compliment its no wonder that your insults are so destructive."

Will found herself smiling, despite her firm resolution that she shouldn't and wouldn't again; especially not because of something he'd said. Irma was the only person in her life that could make her laugh, and even lately, that hadn't been too common an occurrence. Well, it was obvious that her body was against her anyway—so it wasn't so bad that she couldn't keep a straight face.

"You're pretty when you smile, you know." He continued.

It was so unexpected that for an instant Will believed that she had imagined him saying it, "what?" she laughed, and it even occurred to her that it was odd that out of everything that he had told her, _that_ was what she had found genuinely funny. And then she suddenly wished that she hadn't said anything at all, for the flush creeping along her neck made her feel uncomfortable; vulnerable.

Even he seemed to have been thrown off by her reaction, "I-I just meant that if you…err…smiled more and sulked less, then you'd look nicer…" _Oh crap._ Well, that hadn't come out right. _Pride_, he decided, _would be the death of him_; he braced for an attack.

The flush on her face had deepened even before he finished, but when he had, she responded: "well, maybe I should walk around with a mirror attached to my forehead so that you wouldn't have to stare at my horrible hair and my…stupid freckles…" the rest of her sentence faded into a mirthless chuckle. "You do know that quite frankly, you're not very good at compliments either."

Caleb stared at the tiny girl before him—his expression unreadable—she couldn't really think…But, she was beautiful, _easily_, by God she had to know that. All women knew when they were attractive, even those who weren't claimed to be. And here she was: a gorgeous creature, who seemed to believe otherwise; just the way that her dark red hair brightened when placed contrasted to the paleness of her skin, the way that her russet brows angled over her wide, chocolate colored eyes—eyes that drew your attention to her face…And then later to her perfect mouth…

She must have noticed his staring because she shifted uneasily beneath his gaze and then said, quite calmly, "all right, I accept your compliment then. Do you have any more?"

He shook his head slowly, trying, (and failing) to break out of the spell that she had so effortlessly placed on him.

She raised and dropped her shoulders in one effortless movement, before laughing again; that same chilling sound, "I should be grateful then. Well, I have one. Your eyes are green."

"Yes, so?" he muttered off handedly. She was far too complicated, every piece of her that he found made him curious about another, and by now he was getting in way too deep. Thinking about it he decided that what he really wanted was to get away from her—from all of these emotions that she was capable of making him go through; but his feet held fast; paralyzing him; forcing him to feel.

"So they remind me of frogs." She looked indisputably proud of herself.

"And that's a compliment?"

"Yes, I _like_ frogs…and they're good luck." Her face relaxed as her eyes glazed over, "I had a pet frog when I was younger. My mother hated it, and to make me get rid of it she told me that there was a ghost in the Attic, and that the only way that it could be exorcised was if I let her boil some frog stew. She said that I should be proud of my sacrifice."

"Did it work?" Caleb asked.

"Of course it worked. The ghost was Irma; Mother had paid her fifty cents to wander around upstairs howling." She shook her head in acknowledgment, "she was actually the one who told me all of this."

Noticing his sober expression she explained, "It was supposed to be a _funny _story. Well it's funny now, at least."

"Do you know that you have the most irritating cologne?" Caleb blurted before really stopping to consider what he had said.

Will stared at him as though he were foreign, and then slowly, carefully she replied, "I don't wear cologne."

"It's a smell then…like spices or seasoning…"

"Oh!" She interrupted when she finally grasped what it was that he had been trying to clarify, "I didn't know that people could still smell that." She grinned sheepishly. "It's this tonic that my mother makes me use so that my hair will grow back."

So it wasn't a love potion then. Well, this just kept getting better and better.

"Why? Is it that bad?"

"No—it's just…it's all over the cottage…I…it's not as bad as you think…" there was nothing more to say, he didn't think that he could speak anymore in any case, his words were being blocked by the tangled, (and now) rapidly expanding mass of complicated emotions that had clogged his throat.

"Do you like onions?"

"Onions?" He repeated.

"Well, that's what's in it." She stated.

"Oh…" He was breaking—she was breaking him, it didn't even look as though she were trying to, it just came so naturally for her; unraveling him; pushing away all of his defenses, until—this was all that was left.

"So…err…Cornelia has gone back to her room now…maybe…maybe you should leave…"

Maybe…_no_, he should definitely leave. He nodded, but still couldn't force himself to speak—_for God's sake Caleb, preserve at least some of your dignity, don't let it all go to waste because of a girl…_

He had been so close too—all he had needed to do was to take a meager two steps more, and he would have been free from this madness—but then he had passed her, just passed her, not even touched her; when that exasperating aroma that she carried had over taken his mind. It was a terrible feeling, being helpless as his body had frozen, and later turned, in the wrong direction—to face her.

"Will…" he muttered, his breath coming in short, painful gasps. "…you're beautiful."

She had ignored him as he had walked past her and then moved when he had stopped, even shifting her body so that her back was pressed against the wall on her inside of her closet. But now, as he stood before her—his expression lingering somewhere between pained and confused—his words low and emotive…He left her breathless.

"Don't…" she warned, her heart had already started racing, and her self-control was already wavering. "…don't say that."

"I mean it," he whispered, leaning in closer, an action that caused her to gasp. Already, blood was pounding furiously in her ears—she was again aware of her nose's throbbing; her eyes fell shut (to protect herself of course).

"You don't…" She felt him move again so that his hands came to rest on either side of her head; she swallowed, knowing what was coming next—but completely incapable of stopping it, yes that was what it was…_Incapable_…Not unwillingly…_Incapable._

"Will…I…" he sighed; she registered that his breath was warm across her heated face. "You were right about me…I am too proud. And I kissed you then, because—because I find every single inch of you completely irresistible."

Her stomach fluttered, and inside of her, emotions; cold and raw rose to her throat—choking her, so that every breath that she took became a struggle. "You…you swore that you wouldn't lay a hand on me." Still stubborn, it was difficult for her to accept that she was no longer possessed any power over her precious defenses. She hated feeling this weak, this vulnerable—hated him for doing this to her.

He drew in closer still, and instinctively she knew that his mouth was a mere inches away from hers now, "then I won't."

"You're getting married Caleb." It was her final defense, and she used it—a testament to her desperation. "To my sister…"

"Don't worry about that wedding," He whispered. His warm breath scalded her parted lips; God, she had never felt so aware of anyone before—it was as though all of her senses had been forced awake by the electricity that his presence generated.

When their lips finally met, it was in the simplest of touches. It was just his lips pressed tenderly atop of hers, not pushing her, not forcing her—just holding her, caressing her. Still, this was easily the most erotic sensation that she had ever experienced in her life.

It was a mere whisper of a kiss, a promise of what a kiss could be, if she allowed him access—but she already knew—he had already shown her that part, and right now, that promise seemed to great to resist. Will's hands had been clenched into tight fists at her side but now, they dragged upwards, blindly seeking him, and then finding him finally, becoming lost in his wild brown hair.

Soon _she was kissing him_—dragging her tongue tentatively against along the outside of his mouth until they both couldn't bear the torment any longer, and slowly, silently his lips parted—begging her to enter.

Why had she been ignoring this for so long? How could she have allowed herself to be so stupid? This was what she wanted; this was what she needed—him, all of him; in her arms, burning against her skin; this and nothing else.

* * *

How long had it been since he'd last tasted her? Logically, he knew that it had only been a few days—but in his mind, that seemed like an eternity. How had he gone that long? It was truly no wonder that his body had cried out for her—he had practically been starving without her mouth, without the sweetness of her kiss.

There was a wonderful…seductive innocence in the way that she ran her hands along his shoulders—and that touch, even though it was so soft—drove him past insanity. He needed more than this—much more—he knew that now. She was like a drug; addictive; all consuming, and he knew that he wouldn't be fully satisfied until he had tasted every inch of her. God, how wrong he had been—how could a mere fantasy even _compare _to this?

Their tongues met soon after, and she let him take over at that point, being unsure of what to do next. He deepened the kiss, gently leading her where he wanted her to go—causing another jolt of white hot electricity to pass between them, as wordlessly he taught her the steps to his dance. It was madness, he thought, it all had to be—still this sordid contact had found a way to make up for every second of deprivation that he had endured—yes, somehow, all of those sleepless nights, and those torture filled mornings; they all suddenly seemed worth it.

* * *

She pulled away just after that, to gasp for air above the river of desire that was currently pulling her downstream; that was presently covering them both. "Caleb," she whispered, her words sounding just as unsteady as her heart felt, "Touch me." She reached for his hands, still clenched on both sides of her head, and pulled them lower, until he wrapped them about her waist, encircling her protectively.

When she looked into his face again, something had changed, she didn't know what, but whatever it was, it was frightening. She didn't like the way that he looked at her—she didn't like the heavy lidded reflection of herself that she could just make out in his haunting emerald eyes. It scared her that she may have been responsible for this change in him, and it terrified her that he had most definitely been responsible for this change in her.

Oh yes, fear was present, but it wasn't nearly enough to drive her away from him now. Slowly, he bent his head to kiss her again, and obediently, she closed her eyes and waited for his lips to soothe hers. She didn't need to wait very long, for he greeted her lips only seconds after that. This time, the kiss was long and leisurely—at least at first, but the moment that her lips gave way to the pressure of his, he found that he was drowning in the intoxicating sensation of her.

When he pulled away she whimpered in protest, adamant that he continue what he had started. He compensated for the removal of his mouth by littering kisses along her milky neck. And by now, it was unavoidable…she could feel it, beginning in pools that stilled at her feet, before moving steadily upwards, encircling her legs and her waist, until quite remarkably she founded herself submerged in this newest feeling. One that was so powerful that she knew instantly that she should be frightened by it. And _this _fear was _more_ than enough to stop any other actions—

"C-Caleb," she stammered, the light from the room pushed its way into her eyes…making everything seem unusually bright and even surreal. "Stop…"

Perhaps it was the panic in her voice that infiltrated his desire ridden brain—maybe it was his own mind screaming at him to stop before he lost the ability to; whatever it was, it achieved the desired affect, and he pulled away.

Feeling childish, feeling immature, Will realized that she couldn't even look at him now—the feeling of disappointment that she possessed was too great. "I-I'm sorry." She whispered.

He ran a hand through her scarlet locks rather than saying anything to her. Words, at this moment—couldn't successfully express anything that he was feeling. "It's all right. I should leave anyway…people might begin to wonder where I am…"

She nodded; awkwardness prohibiting her from doing much more. He leaned forward and kissed her brow, something that made her heart leap unexpectedly. "Are we…Still…" She wanted to ask if they were still all right, if things were still…The same between them, if he was upset, but she didn't know how to put it; so she remained silent.

"We're fine." He told her, and then he brushed his lips against the tip of her nose—it stung briefly, causing her to remember the collision with the door—strangely, it seemed as though that had happened ages ago—not within the last hour, so many things had changed…And they had all transformed so quickly, that it almost seemed as though those memories belonged to another person—and she was simply watching them being reenacted before her from upon some elevated perch.

"Good bye." He spoke, jarring her slightly. She didn't respond, to her it seemed that if she spoke, all of this…would be ruined.

He left her then; Will listened vigilantly as he opened the first door and then the second, and waited until his sound of his feet had faded completely from her mind, before collapsing to the floor in a boneless heap of turbulent emotion.

She was smiling—maybe at herself, maybe at his memory, but the grin that decorated her blushing face was caused by something that had just transpired. He had kissed her—and it had been amazing, but the memory of that contact wasn't the most dominant thing on her mind, rather, she had recalled his breathless voice, when he had called her _beautiful_.

* * *

**Author:** What the hell, this is so LONG! Grrr. I know that you all think that I'm lying since I've been promising you Haylin for weeks now, but never mind, the Haylin scene should be here but it can't be because, like I've said before I won't be responsible for the ten thousand word chapter. When I planned this out, it wasn't this long. I might actually end up with 25 or so chapters now...how ironic; my story is going according to plan.

Well in Victorian times, onions were rubbed in the hair to make it grow, and I figured eh, what the hell…let me make Will smell spicy.

Thanks for the support and praise I've been receiving. I'll try to get the next part up by Friday (so that poor Hells agent won't have to damage her eyes by staring at the computer screen for too long).

And yes, reviews still make me happy.

**Dedicated:** To zadien and dame hatchel and kadeana who got me into this ship in the first place. Which reminds me, whilst you await my update go and entertain yourselves with Zadien's fic, Waking Dreams if you haven't already. It's **REALLY **good, and if that isn't enough to inspire you, Cornelia got kidnapped in the last chapter…**NOW RUN** my pretties.


	13. Chapter 13

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

Chapter Thirteen

* * *

**EDIT:** This stupid website deleted my breaks, and then wouldn't let me fix it for a LONG while. I know that I hate reading stories without breaks, so I've fixed that. Continue on.

This stupid website deleted my breaks, and then wouldn't let me fix it for a LONG while. I know that I hate reading stories without breaks, so I've fixed that. Continue on.

* * *

When she had so recklessly set off from her estate that morning, Susanna hadn't really expected that she would have to be away for too long—given the weather; the ice cold rain and winds (that were most disagreeable, even in her cozy carriage), Susanna had predicted that by noon, Irma would have _sought her out_, if only to beg for protection from the torrent.

However, by three o'clock that afternoon, she had, with irritation, changed her mind; Irma was still on the loose! Still, after _five_ hours! And by now the two men perched atop of the carriage, from where they steered the contraption (erratically, she might add); were fast loosing patience and heart where this mission was concerned. Honestly, Susanna was half expecting a revolt.

_That child!_ She suspected that this had to be her father in her—that bastard had always been a crafty, malicious devil!

And he was continuing to torment her from beyond the grave! She wondered if it would be too far fetched for him to have possessed his daughter, like a vengeful spirit, if it was only so that he could get revenge on her even after his demise. Men were of course, from her experience, incredibly gifted at holding grudges.

Stifling a groan, Susanna hesitantly pulled forward the window flap (flinching every time a particularly cold drop of rain slapped her porcelain skin) and examined the wooded area that surrounded her house. She may have very well be searching through her morning's porridge for all the good it did her.

She couldn't see anything beyond the walls of grey and brown that had been constructed by the heavens. And she couldn't hear anything either; save for the clatter of her horse's feet against the muddy path, and the occasional howl of the wind that acted as a window to the weather's true emotion.

Understandably, the worthlessness of two of her five senses was a great blow to her; in fact she considered herself as being in a state of pure confusion, as a result (and of course due to the incompetence of the men that she had brought with her) she wouldn't be able to find Irma now.

And really; she had better things to do than this! The dresses, the cake, the invitations, the church! Really, it was too much. And now Irma had gone and injured her only real hope for assistance. Another surge of annoyance warmed her freezing skin—she'd send her away for this!

_As soon as she found her! _

Really, could one child be so selfish? Maybe a long spell as a volunteer nurse would teach her some humility. She'd be off to Spain on the next cargo ship, God willing! After all, there was always some war in Spain; it was a direct result of their barbaric nature! It was high time that she used that fact to her advantage.

If only Will hadn't unwittingly ostracized them from the remainder of their family—she'd send them _both_ off to Boston with her cousins until this wedding was over. Come to think of it, Will would also do well with a stint as a volunteer. Such thoughts for Susanna were short lived however—since knowing her eldest daughter, she would go to the front lines only to contract every disease on the battlefield and then bring them home to breed in Heatherfield.

* * *

The carriage halted suddenly and the resulting shock uprooted Susanna from her seat. She crashed head first into the wall of the carriage, and ended up upside down on the floor of the vehicle, her many skirts obscuring her vision.

"For God's sake!" She screamed while spitting her numerous petticoats out of her mouth. "What the hell is it now?"

No answer followed; instead she heard two successive grunts and then _felt_ two successive jolts as her drivers descended from their perch. _Oh lord_, had they been attacked?

Her amethyst eyes roamed the inside of her carriage aimlessly—searching for any hint of a predator. The dim space offered up no answers, and slowly she felt her body succumb to the fear.

Her head throbbed and her tongue felt swollen and heavy. Before she could even think to reach into the side of her shoe (where she kept her faithful letter opener), the door to the carriage was yanked open unexpectedly, spraying the disorientated woman with both rain water and mud.

"We found her Miss Vandom…err…Countess!" Bellowed Steven in his country drawl, and to emphasize his words, the blurry image of both he and Eric holding onto a squirming Irma, entered her mind. "Oh thank God! Well, it took you lot long enough!"

With as much dignity as she could muster, Susanna rolled, kicked and grunted into a sitting position, then ignoring the befuddled glances of the two young men; she grabbed her screeching daughter by the shoulders and heaved her unceremoniously into the carriage.

"She was in the pond Miss." Eric stated after taking a moment to wring some of the water from his cap. "We had thought that she had drowned but…" As he spoke a flash of lightning illuminated the afternoon sky forcing them all to reconsider their current position.

"We'll talk about this later," Susanna concluded, and then to the two shivering, waterlogged boys she dictated that they return to their previous posts and take them back home.

With faces that suggested heavily that if given the choice between enduring an onslaught of leeches and obeying that order, they would have immediately chosen the former; both men grudgingly conformed (although not before uttering several four lettered words on the way).

Once alone, Susanna turned to Irma, who (dripping wet and shivering) had rearranged herself on the adjacent seat in a manner that made any sort of eye contact with the older woman difficult, if not all together impossible.

Her mother waited in silence for the jerk that indicated the commencement of the journey towards the house before allowing all of the frustration; every ounce of the rage that she had been forced to contain; to explode in the form of a horrible physical assault.

Arms flailing in a manner that resembled a windmill and wailing like a banshee, she struck out at Irma, who once recovering from the shock, was overcome with the realization that she had nowhere to run.

God alone probably knew that it was not the fulfillment of her revenge that caused Susanna to stop attacking her youngest daughter—merely the reality that she was suffocating in the tiny carriage that she had been placed in and of course the fact that she had run out of breath due to her ever too tight corset…

"I-I should…" Susanna gasped before collapsing atop of her seat in a heap of silk and limbs. "I should b-beat you with my shoe!"

Out of shame, more from being caught that anything else; Irma rubbed the welts that her mother had caused to scar her pretty face and answered slowly, "I didn't do anything wrong."

This appeared to infuriate her mother even more than anything else, and she seemed for a wild instant to reconsider smacking her again; but after mulling over the consequences she remained still, deciding on a verbal battering instead. "You didn't do anything wrong? Oh no, Irma giving laxatives to our guest wasn't wrong at all! Actually, trying to give salts to your sister is a deed worthy of sainthood!"

"It isn't as though someone died; now had I killed the wedding woman I could understand your anger. But really mother, I find that you're being quite unreasonable."

Now, her mother showed no such hesitation concerning smacking her. She pulled off her shoe in one smooth action and clobbered Irma with it until her hand fell asleep. "Do you want to murder me?" Irma screamed, pink in the face now because of all of the excitement. "I shall inform the curate of your behavior, I am certain that he'll have me taken away!"

"Then tell him then!" Susanna snapped, looking around fruitlessly for the precious letter opener, the same one that had slipped from her shoe when she had yanked it off her person. "Let him take you away, because _I swear_ that one of you girls will be the death of me."

"Oh, and by one of us I imagine that you mean Will or I, right?" Irma challenged, she was too proud to cry over this—not unless she could find some irresistible advantage to such a display of emotion.

"Will or _me_! If you are going to complain at least have the dignity to use proper English!"

"Fine!" Irma faced her mother, eyes narrowed and nostrils flared. "Then _me_ thinks that if _you_ would just take _your_ head out of the clouds where Cornelia was concerned, you might just notice that you have two other daughters!"

"What does this have to do with anything? You tried to poison your sister!"

Irma ignored that, desperation had clouded her senses, prohibiting her from seeing anything other than this one small, faltering ray of hope that had just appeared at the end of this unpromising tunnel. "I tried to give my sister diarrhea—it isn't the same thing! And besides, you wouldn't have cared if I had done it to Will. No, the only reason that you chased me down was because I tried to damage your precious, prefect daughter! It's enough to drive me insane!"

She swallowed before continuing, even if her words did not guilt her mother into sparing her, at the very least they would buy her some time. "Cornelia is getting married," Irma imitated in a high pitched voice, "Cornelia needs to get a new gown, Cornelia; Cornelia; Cornelia!"

"So what, you're jealous?" Her mother finally struck back. "When you get married, or should I say _if_ ? But whatever, you must believe me when I tell you that I shall pay just as much attention to you as I am paying to Cornelia."

"I doubt that."

"So let me understand this, you did all of this because you think that I don't give you enough attention?" Irma shrugged at her mother's accusation, feeling utterly uninspired to continue the conversation knowing that she would cause only more trouble for both herself and Will.

"Oh, so you're silent now? Well, then that's fine, if you are even half as spoilt and as self centered as you have just claimed to be then there is only one suitable punishment in my mind! Irma, you are forbidden from going to the Ball this Friday."

If she had cut out the poor girl's heart with a pair of rusty shears she wouldn't have caused her more pain. "What!" Irma exploded, now this wasn't fair; not in the least! She hadn't been being selfish at all, she had been trying to help Will, and now she was expected to suffer for it.

"You heard me." Noticing immediately that she had struck a nerve Susanna spoke with an almost eerie, sadistic coolness in her voice.

"But…" Now Irma wanted to cry; she had set her heart on attending that Ball. She had already picked out the perfect ocean blue gown to wear, as well as the most darling pair of gloves…And now...

"I'm not being selfish at all!" She expressed in a voice that was drenched in teenaged heartbreak. "I was doing this because…" Luckily she caught herself in time and so she managed to recover, saying, "…I was _bored_."

Susanna nodded, her eyes never leaving Irma's cherubic face; she had suspected something like this, reason being that Irma (who had the attention span of a fruit fly) couldn't have _ever_ thought of something like this on her own.

"Were you doing this for Will? Did she put this idea in your head?" That theory hadn't quite made perfect sense in her mind either; she knew her daughter, and Will wasn't vengeful. She was rude, sullen and a heathen; but she wasn't resentful. But that _man;_ was she attracted to him? And if so had _he_ changed her mind…

"Why would she?" Irma replied, sounding so surprised that Susanna knew that the entire thing had been staged. She found herself groaning; _those two had a loyalty that could be both inspiring and annoying, all at the same time!_

"You tell me."

Although she hadn't dared to meet her mother's prying eyes, Irma could picture perfectly just how the woman was staring at her right now. Such a picture chilled her to the bones, just like the ice cold waters she had utilized as a hideout had moments before. "Think what you want then." She replied, "But I still think that you're being very unfair. After all, I was the one who told you to have a ball in the first place and I wrote up most of those invitations and I tied all of those ribbons to the dance cards."

"Well Irma, the way that I see it," Susanna decided to let the theory on Will's influence pass; she'd just have to find some other way to deal with her oldest. "The only reason we are having this Ball is because of the wedding. If you are against the wedding, then how can you possibly want the Ball?"

Irma huffed and quickly tried to piece together a response in her mind, before she could however, the carriage had been coaxed to a stop; they had already arrived home.

* * *

Wasting no more time, Irma shoved the door open and lunged for the outdoors, relishing in the sensation of the cool fingers of the weather as they stroked her face—though, her euphoria was fleeting.

She would have _never _expected to see this, and her reaction proved just that; standing still, _frozen _almost in the downpour…watching speechless the sight before her. There was a caravan, the sort that only circus performers or _gypsies_ used…And it was overturned on the lawn.

Never mind that, several of the first floor windows had been shattered. _How had that happened?_

Behind her, Susanna walked around in the same surreal state. Her blood felt as though it had been frozen solid in her veins, she couldn't breathe—this couldn't be real. _Not yet, please God not yet_—not when she was this close. "Cornelia!" A horrible cry, one that only a mother could manage was torn from her throat, her legs, previously weak and incapable of carrying her body more than a few inches, now surged with life and she ran forward, towards the house, screaming her daughter's name as she went, until a low, mature tone stopped her movements completely.

"You woman!" There was an accent; a foreign one Irma recognized it as; but the voice, that came from next to the carriage. "What are you running around screaming for? You will attract the dead with that sort of shrieking! How do you expect them to sleep, your hearing improves when you are a spirit, I have told you this many times, ah!"

Still silent, Irma turned to the owner of the voice—only to realize that it wasn't a stranger. She had seen this woman before, countless times as a child actually. When she would come to care for them…Well, for _Will_ mostly when she had been ill…yes, it was clear now, Irma could easily recognize the unusual garments that she wore: trousers and tunics that resembled a pair of Jeffery's outrageous night clothes. But she had always been sent for by their mother because she had been paranoid about physicians. But what was she doing here—now? Will wasn't sick…

"Yan…Y-Yan Lin?" Susanna stammered. "What on earth are you doing here?"

The old woman nodded, causing her long silver hair to slide along her shoulders, even that slight motion exuded the aura of infinite wisdom; although when she spoke that impression was challenged, if not dismissed completely. "It was a cold wind that blew me this way Susan. Ah! I came for the wedding of course, I was nearby when I saw it in my tea leaves…I knew then that I had to come immediately."

Another roar of thunder interrupted the meeting, and caused Irma to be shaken, gracelessly out of the spell that had been cast on her.

"Come now, let us go on inside—there is much that I should tell you; but not much that I can. Did you see what happened to your windows—ah, you Westerners using all of this glass in your houses! When Hay Lin tried to make the right turn the mule slipped and whoosh!" She exaggerated with the further use of her hands, which was just as well, for due to the sounds of the summer storm, it was particularly difficult to understand anything that was coming out of her mouth.

"You, broke my windows?" Now that the situation seemed to be remedying itself, Susanna felt immensely calm.

"_No_, we did not break your windows. Ah, poor, poor Hay Lin, the girl's heart is in the right place…but her head! Ah, not so much! And I'm sure that _you_ of all people will understand that there is a large difference between aiming for the right and getting there."

Susanna giggled out of embarrassment. "Well, then yes come in! You do remember Irma." She indicated towards the statue like individual who was still gaping gracelessly at the two women. "Irma, you get out of the rain! You'll take ill!"

"Oh no, she _will_—tomorrow I gather, ah, it won't be so terrible for her though." Her dark eyes lingered meaningfully at the upstairs windows, "Although…"

"Are you serious? Well, Irma I hope that you are happy now!" Susanna yelled. "You will stay away from Cornelia, do you understand me?"

"Oh why would I go any where near her?" Irma retorted before darting inside—her destination: Will's room, to discuss their mother's most horrendous idea of punishment.

"Ah! Fiery; that one," Yan Lin commented.

"You have no idea. If it wasn't for the draught you made for my nerves, I'm certain that I would have dropped dead already." Susanna motioned for the woman to follow her inside.

"Ah! Not yet! I'm still waiting for Hay Lin to return, she ran off to bury Blunk."

"Blunk? What's a Blunk?"

"It's a mule—he, sadly didn't survive the collision." She crossed herself before bowing her head in the animal's memory.

"Oh yes, Yan Lin—that reminds me." She pointed the shards of broken glass that lay scattered across the grass. "My house…"

"Ah! You expect payment, yes?" The oriental woman interrupted. "Well, I could pay you—but I know something that is much more helpful given your situation. Hay Lin sews, she sews quickly as well, and I know that you do not have a wedding gown in your possession."

"So Hay Lin; she'll make Cornelia's dress for free?"

"Ah! Of course not for free; we are not idiots here now!" She wrung some of the water out of her deep red tunic before going on, "we'll do it—for a discounted price."

"You've ruined my house!"

"Lucky for you I am also part carpenter. I'll fix the house, yes? Half price! Ah! But before you allow Hay Lin into the house, you must know—her fingers are very long," she lowered her voice ominously, "and her pockets, very deep."

"I-I don't understand."

"Hide your silver!" Yan Lin rolled her eyes. "Do you get it now? It is great dishonor to our family—although, she is such a kind girl, most people tend to overlook it."

At that very moment, Hay Lin emerged from behind the house, brandishing a shovel in midair. "Oh grandmamma, doesn't the rain taste nice? It tastes like…sausage! Isn't that odd grandmamma, do you think that sausage comes from the clouds…or is it a coincidence?"

"Such a nice girl…" Yan Lin repeated, all the while throwing a weary look at Susanna. "So what? It isn't as though your children are so great! I could tell you what I've seen for that oldest one, ah! Come inside Hay Lin!"

"W-What about the oldest one?" Susanna questioned, but she followed the old woman into the house regardless.

_Wonderful, her guests were already arriving._ A horrible thought finally entered her mind: _where would they all stay?_

* * *

That Tuesday morning proved to contradict the day before completely. Well of course there was the obvious: the sun had, after many failed attempts, finally managed to chase away the rain clouds that had previously dominated the sky. As a result, the country side now practically sang with the excitement of being clothed in the robes of summer. The flowers seemed brighter, the air smelt fresher—a pleasant mix of dew and lavender…

Everything seemed so alive—so _happy_.

And then of course, there was that which was less apparent; the change that was currently occurring in our heroine. It was a very complex one that, despite her best efforts to contain it, had spread across her body like a savage fire, eating away at her flesh and sinew until her entire body had been destroyed by its fury.

And she hadn't cared a bit. Rather, she had emerged from the fire, charred, battle weary—but, like the world around her: happy; completely and inarguably happy; _for once_.

Well of course she had struggled; such emotions _certainly_ didn't _belong_ in the body of Wilhelmina Vandom. And oh yes, she had tried to talk herself out of it, she had tried to hold on to those prized threads of self preservation that she usually cherished so much, but she hadn't been able to win this battle; no, she had become a victim—albeit a very happy victim, but a victim all the same.

She smiled to herself at the analogy—one of a battle. How like the old Will to do something like that.

Why, even that; _smiling_ was a novel experience for the red head, and she seemed to be doing it so much more often, since her defeat yesterday. She had fallen asleep last night smiling (then it had been because she could just barely recall the feeling of his lips against her own) and this morning she had awaken with a smile on her lips (this time because she had remembered just how wonderfully—_clean_ he had smelt).

_Oh Will, you are gone._ Her conscience sighed, and Will didn't even bother to form a defense; nope, for she knew that soon that nagging little voice would see things _her_ way and fall victim to the tumultuous whirlpool of sensations that currently ruled her mind and senses. How could it _not_ after all? This, feeling felt so…nice.

Scary…Perplexing…But nice.

"Yes, nice." Will tugged at the jagged edges of her ruby red locks (out of a lack of things to do with her hands) and sighed. "Nice is very good."

From her position, curled up beneath the giant window in her bedroom, Will heard Irma moaning next door. The unfortunate girl had taken ill sometime last night, and of course, in true Irma fashion, intended to make sure that everyone in the household was well aware of her situation.

Will had intended to go over and check on her earlier this morning—but she had never made it. Somewhere between her bed and her door, she had been overwhelmed by a sudden rush of—_exhilaration_, which had caused her to fall across her bed in a pathetic heap of lovesick girl; it was a sensation that when it had faded away, left her feeling happier than ever.

She had decided to remain alone for a bit longer, just to relish in these thoughts and feelings, actions which made sense to her since she had after all, spent so much time denying her own self the privilege already. Irma would just ruin it with silly questions and speculations.

No, this feeling; this wild, perfect feeling—one that could only be described as something that lingered between unbridled joy and exquisite pain, something that made her want to scream and cry all at the exact same moment—was content to be left alone to dance within her heart. There, and nowhere else, Will knew, was where it belonged.

She remained on the floor, twirling her fingers through her hair and nibbling on her lips until she realized just how silly she must look to an outsider. How would she explain that to her mother?

There would be no explanation she knew, none that would suffice at least. Sighing one last potent sigh, and smiling one final nostalgic smile, Will brushed side all thoughts of Caleb's smell and his lips and climbed to her feet. She had decided that perhaps it _was_ a good time to visit Irma—so long as the brunette didn't bombard her with questions about her alleged love life—she was certain that they'd get along just fine.

* * *

"It's hard to forgive, and to look at those eyes, and feel those wasted hands," he answered. "Kiss me again; and don't let me see your eyes. I forgive what you have done to me. I forgive me murder, but yours? How can I?"

"Will, you are terrible." Irma groaned from the dark corner that she had been banished to, "stop reading right this minute, I fear that I won't be able to look at Heathcliff in the same light again."

"What are you complaining about? _You're_ the one who wanted me to read to you." Reclining casually on her sister's ever muddled bed, Will peered at the cloth draped figure that sat hunched over in the corner of the oddly dim and dreary room. The smell of ginger was overpowering—and every now and again a white hand would stir to wipe the perspiration away from her eyes.

"But you have n-no," she sneezed loudly.

"Bless you."

"You read like an old maid, not a young girl. I want passion." She mumbled; causing Will to have to lean forward in order to hear her properly, for currently she sounded as though she had swallowed an angry cat.

"I don't do passion," Will smiled reassuringly even though she was certain that with the large white blanket that covered most, if not all of her sister's frame; she wouldn't be able to see it. "Would you like some water?"

"You're being very nice." Irma commented, she obviously had wanted to say something more, but due to the immense pain speaking, hell _sitting _was causing her, she decided that it was in her best interest to remain quiet.

"Well, I suppose that I did tell you to go outside. So this is my fault…that you're sick at least." Will poured a tall glass of water and walked over to the ailing girl. Once before her she bent so that the two of them were at eye level and pulled the makeshift veil away from her face.

"Don't do that!" Very pink, very damp, very swollen, Irma groaned when the sudden cool air brushed her face. "I need to sweat. Go tell Mother to bring some more hot water." She pointed at the basin that her feet, "the water is cold."

Will eyed the steam that was coming from the water despairingly. "It's not _cold_ Irma." She then pressed her hand to her sister's forehead. "The fever is in your head, I wish that Mother would call for a _decent_ physician."

"I'm fine." The brunette concluded, hastily rearranging the blanket over her face and then craning her neck so that she was directly in the path of the evaporating water.

"What hurts?"

Irma shivered and then coughed loudly. "My head," she admitted, "My throat—so stop asking me so many questions; it hurts to talk."

Will ran her hand along the younger girl's back, sighed and then stood up. "What if this is consumption?"

"Are you joking?" Irma hissed and then groaned for her head had started to pulsate as she did so. "Do you _want _me to die?"

"That woman had me smelling barley and drinking chicken's blood since I was four Irma." Will frowned at the memory, "I only began to get better when I went to school and _they_ found a physician."

"I want _Jane Eyre_ now," Irma ignored her, although she had started trembling even more violently than ever. "You can't bore me with that; Mr. Rochester doesn't show up until past chapter nine."

Will sighed and nodded, shuffling over to Irma's large desk where she kept all of her favorite novels. "I like it more anyways." Irma amended, "it's not as depressing."

Will rummaged nosily through her sister's personal effects, currently stacked chaotically on top of her desk, effects which ranged from a hairbrush to scraps of complicated looking letters and notes; she sought, yet did not find, Irma's book. "I can't find it." She surrendered at last, "mainly because you are easily the filthiest person that I've ever met."

"Will, come close this window; I'm freezing."

"It's not open Irma." Will practically whispered; she was afraid now…she had never seen Irma this ill before.

Her sister sneezed suddenly, knocking Will from her current stupor. "Irma if I got us into town, would you go to a doctor?"

"No, it's just because it's the first day Will. I'll be better tomorrow." She emitted a low breath and wiped the drops of perspiration from her forehead. "If I'm not, then fine; you can take me town, if it makes you feel better."

Will nodded and took a seat in an armchair whose shape was obscured by the several gowns and stockings that Irma had strewn over its surface.

"So, what did you do yesterday?" Irma sniffled after several minutes of quiet.

Will, who had been lost in her thoughts—mainly thoughts of how she could capture some leeches and place the bloodsuckers on Irma's body sometime today, only grunted when she heard Irma's question.

"Because when I came home, my Armoire was at your door, and when Jeffery moved it; you were grinning like an idiot."

That revived her, something that felt like bees, angry bees—awoke in her stomach, and she felt her face redden. "Was I really?" To her own disgust and disappointment her voice sounded several octaves higher than it normally did.

"Yes, so what happened?" Now, conquered by curiosity Irma pulled the blankets away from her own face.

"M-Mother placed the…err…what did you call it?" She felt light headed, the thoughts that were in her mind seemed too dreamlike to belong to her, and reluctantly she allowed them to fall into the abyss at the back of her mind.

"The Armoire?" Despite herself Irma smirked, really, Will was too much. After all of that pretending she had been left completely bemused by a man. _A man_, well, she couldn't deny it anymore—it was obvious now.

"Mother placed the Armoire there, yes." Will tugged at the ends of her red hair furiously before jumping to her feet and pacing in a restless manner about her bedroom.

Irma's clear blue eyes followed her sister; in spite of the pain that was embedded in her every fiber, she felt strangely uplifted—at least something had worked. "And then you and Mister Olsen spent some time together—_alone_, I gather."

The pillows that Will had been arranging fell from her hands, her face, now quite frankly just as red as her hair, darkened significantly. "What?" She screeched; it was in such a high pitch that Irma actually flinched when she heard it.

"Well, regardless of what you did or didn't do," Irma snuggled deeper into her chair, and finally replaced her blanket. "Mother knows about you two. It's that noticeable."

"Well, then Mother…just like you are…is very, very…err…"

"Wrong? Irma asked teasingly. "Don't try Will; it's all over your face. And of course she knows…yesterday she asked me if you were the one who told me to do this, and now I find out that she locked you in your room." She wanted to shake her head to show just how much she pitied the older girl's ignorance, but alas, she was powerless to do little more than blink, thus she satisfied herself with clicking her tongue instead.

"Well…" the feelings were returning now, stronger and stranger than she had ever known them to be. Sighing Will collapsed on the bed, her hands (quivering of course) covered her face while she thought. So here it was: the ultimatum. Admitting these things to herself had been difficult enough—but evidently she wasn't very good at hiding such emotion from others.

But these _sensations_—a wonderful boiling passion that was cooking deep within her soul setting her entire being alight with a hunger unlike anything she had ever felt! It was killing her, she was already boiling, drowning, burning because of him…just the aroma was like live electricity; thrilling her, scaring her—pleasing her. And then of course, she was confused; _terrified_ by all of this; still terrified to release the hold on her heart. She had wanted she had _tried_ to ignore such things, all of her life she had tried…but her half hearted attempts had been futile this time; she couldn't, because she really didn't want to.

It felt nice to think about it—yes, she _enjoyed _the unbridled feeling of happiness that had clouded her judgment all last night and all of this morning, but upon closer inspection, the only thing that she saw now was fear…

And…No, she wouldn't admit these things to Irma, to _her_ of all people. To admit them to someone else would be to show this vulnerability off to the world. Was she really ready to do that? To allow anyone to know that yes, she was right now, head over heels, head in the clouds, over the moon in—

"Well, Will? Come on now! I worked hard for this—I've suffered."

Oh Irma, if you only knew what suffering was. Inhaling a long gust of ginger scented wind, she did something that was completely unexpected—she laughed. After all, she was still abnormally happy.

"Will, you are gone." Irma channeled her conscience.

"All right, I'll tell you," Yes, she decided, she would tell her, she'd tell anyone who asked because this was far too powerful an emotion to keep locked up in a cage. "But you have to keep this a secret."

"I swear Will." Irma grinned enthusiastically.

"Swear on the walls of this house." She dissolved in a fit of giggles at the memory.

"All right, fine I'll swear on the walls of anything—just tell me!" Irma threw a confused look at her sister, an arousing feeling of pride choking her. She had known that this would happen—it had worked! Will was finally happy, _finally_.

"He…" she breathed, and then placed a finger to her lips in one smooth movement, "…kissed me."

Irma wanted to scream, to jump for joy and to embrace her sister for finally showing some interest! But she couldn't, so she instead sneezed twice and hoped that Will got the message.

"Was it good?"

"Very…" her eyes glazed over, Irma noticed that she had the same stupid look on her face. Yes, _gone_; _gone_; _gone_.

"So is there anything that you want to say to me?" The brunette hinted, all the while brushing a few damp locks from her eyes.

"What?" Still breathless, Will bit her lip and smiled once more.

"Thank you?"

Honestly, Will didn't think that Irma deserved any form of congratulations—but she was unwell, and Will wouldn't be accused of hurting the sick. "Yes, Irma. Thank you very much."

"Good!" Irma managed before falling into a fit of uncontrollable coughs. "All right," she breathed, once she had recovered, "now, did you get him to say that he'd marry you instead."

Slowly, the feeling of delicate elation faded from her body. "What…" she swallowed sharply, "…do you mean?"

"No?" Irma sighed, she sounded incredibly put out. "Will, Mother wants to push the wedding up again; she's so desperate that she wants to put it on Saturday now. You know, even though Saturdays are cursed. If you're going to do something Will, you have to do it now."

Will had more or less been concentrating all of her energies on the here and the now—permanent, then and forever had never entered into the equation. But, if she really was this ecstatic, then maybe she should consider it. Maybe…

Now, the fear had climbed to the top of that dangerous mountain of emotions…_do it now? _She felt her motivation desert her. Married? To him? Her heart raced at the idea, to her surprise; it wasn't just from being nervous.

"I don't think that we're ready for marriage Irma…it was just a kiss." A damn good kiss that had turned her world upside down—but still…it was a kiss.

"So then he's canceling the engagement with Cornelia then?"

"Look," Will scowled; she knew that Irma would ruin it. She should have just kept her mouth shut. "We haven't really talked about this, so you know, stop rushing me!"

Irma shrugged her quaking shoulders, "you should listen to me Will, because I do know what I'm saying."

* * *

Will felt very tormented for the rest of her stay in Irma's room. She had complied with Irma's requests for entertainment, and unhappily read to her the duration of _Wuthering Heights _(ignoring Irma's comments for more fervor in her words). But it was her sister's demands that she _do something_ that had her in such a mood…

She should see him, she knew that. She wanted to, really wanted to, but talking—that would be difficult. How could she ask him to do something like that? How would he leave Cornelia—people would talk; she was already a disgrace, this would only worsen the situation.

It was only when her Mother came into the room, covered in sawdust and brandishing a kettle of hot water; that Will decided on her course of action…she couldn't do this. Happiness shouldn't cost this much; her Mother was determined to make this wedding work. She'd hate her forever if she stole her sister's husband—good kisser though he was—in spite of of how he made her feel—she couldn't…she wasn't this selfish.

Now, she felt the _sadness_ swell up inside of her chest—it felt like a bubble, ready to burst, ready to coat her limbs with an unimaginable pain.

"Will, we need to talk. Do you remember that nice Potter boy? Joseph?"

"Nice Potter boy?" Irma flinched when the scalding hot water touched her bare feet. "Since when are the Potters nice Mother?"

"Since that darling Potter boy has come to call on you Will—go change your dress, and try to fix your hair. We must give off a good impression!"

"Joseph Potter?" Will blurted.

"Will," inquired Irma. "Isn't that the boy that you beat with the vase?"

"Joseph Potter?" Will repeated, no, it still didn't make any sense. "He hates me! He said so himself—why is he here?"

"There is such a thin line between love and hate." Susanna placed her hand atop of Irma's forehead. "Irma, you're not sweating enough."

"I'm trying." Irma challenged, "It isn't something that I can control!"

"So, Will, are you going downstairs to meet with him? It would be rude to refuse." She sang in a little voice.

"No, I can't stand him, he's rude and he insulted me and tried to…" her breath died in her lungs. Will remembered that she had told her family that the reason that she had hit Joseph was because he had called her a freckled little brat. The truth however _had been _because at the time, she had been seeing his cousin—Jacob, who had actually gone and told Joseph something terrible about her, _something _that he, had repeated that night.

"I'm not going." She concluded.

"Will, this is not up for deliberation. Most girls your age are already engaged. You're wasting precious time! Unless you have other plans…"

Irma looked at Will meaningfully, the redhead nodded before yielding. "All right, fine; I'll go, but I won't go alone—I want Jeffery to come with me."

'_Jeffery,' _Irma wondered, '_well, Will must really dislike this man if she was seeking out Jeffery's company._'

"Well, of course." Susanna smiled. "Well, why are you still in here, Will? You know just how sickly you are—if you even feel a bit under the weather, you must avoid Cornelia at all costs!"

Will ran a hand through her fringe; a mirthless smile fell to her lips. "I wouldn't have it any other way." Well, at least something had come out of this—she had changed her mind about Caleb. Now, more than ever she could see that she certainly wasn't the most selfish person in this house; most definitely not.

* * *

**Author:** Well, Seniya went on vacation. Eh, not really, but whenever I tried to write this I had so many things going on in my head that it sounded cluttered. But BOOYAH! I got Hay Lin here (not as much as I wanted, but enough to keep you all satisfied for a bit), and Blunky (well a mention). I do LOVE Blunk, but it's 1850 something in my story, plus it's AU, so there isn't much I can do for that.

Yan Lin's character is based entirely on my psycho Vietnamese grandmother. Yes, the woman is cheap and "physic" honestly, the Asian Sylvia Browne. Heh, she wishes. So yeah, Hay Lin is a Kleptomaniac, I just added that to make the character more interesting. And Will's suitor—ooohhh.

Ah, no Will and Caleb this chapter, I apologize, I had the scene, it's already written, and it'll be here by the end of the week. Again, it was too long—I have so many things to tell you.

Zadien, that was easily the most memorable review that I have ever received and I hope that yourspacebargetsfixedsoon. :P

**Disclaim:** The above extract is from Wuthering Heights, which I don't own, wish I did, really wish I did, but I don't.

**Dedicated: **To He Yan (nope no Matt), Tella, EvilFaerie17 and Moonlightshadow4. Thank you for all of the support.


	14. Chapter 14

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

Chapter Fourteen

* * *

The charming summer night could be heard sighing sweetly; a gentle; wistful sound. One that could be felt rather than listened for—made real by the chilly night breeze.

Will, to her own annoyance had fallen right back into old habits—insomnia in this case; although this time it was purely Irma's doing. The girl's words had acted as a catalyst, evoking a terrible change in the sufferance that had already been too excited in the pit of her stomach. Now it was agitated, like a nest of ants, crawling; moving; picking away at her last bits of sanity until they had destroyed it all. And then still unsatisfied, they had spread throughout her body, infecting her limbs with the same turbulent sensation.

Lying in her bed flat on her back with her arms neatly folded on top of her stomach; Will felt worse than she had in days, an ironic impression actually, since for the majority of the daytime, she had been soaring in skies of blissful stimulation. He had kissed her—yes; he had told her such breathtaking things…Such perfect things. But he hadn't mentioned anything about Cornelia. He was still to be married. Kisses and compliments hadn't changed anything.

Maybe…maybe she had been right earlier in her thinking; perhaps it was better to just give up, it wouldn't work. She couldn't be spiteful or selfish in this situation because there was simply too much at stake.

'_You're just afraid that's all.'_ Her conscience a true politician, had after Monday's activities suddenly decided to change its position; _now_ it was fully supportive of running away with Caleb—so long as he asked.

"I'm not afraid." Will muttered, more as a means of quelling the uncomfortable feelings in her belly than silencing the voice in her ears.

'_You are,'_ it countered, '_you've seen what he can do to you and you're terrified!'_

"You're being stupid." Will hissed, covering her face with her hands. "The only things that I'm afraid of are the consequences of this little romp, that's all."

Especially after today; _her mother knew_—Will was certain of it. Joseph Potter's unexpected presence was more than proof of that fact. And nothing had pushed her off of _cloud nine_ faster than the knowledge of that incredible detail.

It didn't matter how she had found out—_no_, just being aware that she knew had caused the happiness in Will's being to evaporate…and it had been such a _nice _feeling. Now all she could taste in her mouth was shame, flavored with that same troubled dissatisfaction. She had behaved like some whore—lusting after her sister's fiancé…and he didn't even seem to care. After _everything_ he was _still_ her sister's fiancé.

She should end things—or perhaps he would; she hadn't seen him all day, maybe he was avoiding her.

That dog! He had taken advantage of her that's what this was, yes, _he_ had kissed _her_…And she should be angry.

Sighing, Will pulled herself into a sitting position. She wasn't furious, not even a little—she was confused; she was depressed; she wanted so much to just crawl into a tiny little ball and to awaken tomorrow in a world where none of this had taken place.

It wouldn't be so bad if she had never known what it was like to feel so genuinely uplifted…so juvenile and happy, so much so that it didn't matter that you looked like a complete clod. And she wanted that feeling again—oh God help her but she needed him more than she needed her next breath.

And with that notion came the panic.

"What's wrong with you?" Will whispered. "Stop it! Stop it now!"

How could she have allowed herself to become so vulnerable? Even at this moment she could feel them…words and thoughts that felt heavy against her tongue. But she forced herself to ignore them…she had already decided that _this_, regardless of how much she wanted it, was finished. And she didn't need to think on these things…and she most definitely didn't need to _say_ them.

For she knew, instinctively almost, that once her lips parted; once those words were allowed out into the open, that they would be transformed—that they would no longer be mere sounds but that they would take the form of a weapon, a dangerous one; one that would pound away at her barricades. And so she swallowed the words; choking, gasping and flinching at their wistful taste…

No, she definitely couldn't allow this to continue this. She had gone far too long already. It wasn't right; it wasn't fair, not to anyone…And she refused to be knife that tore this family apart.

Her mind made up, Will removed herself from the wilderness of blankets and pillows and blindly walked over to her closet. She would do this tonight—before she lost her nerve. She would go to his cottage and tell him just what was on her mind.

That it had been…lovely, but it couldn't persevere. She had her dignity and her family's name (what was left of both) to consider.

'_But what will you do if he asks to marry you instead?'_ A ray of hope, deadly in the current circumstances, winded its path through the murky chasm of self sacrifice. Such was a thought that made her entire body freeze just as she was pulling on her robe. No, he wouldn't. He wouldn't dare. And even if he did…she'd refuse.

"Yes," Will decided as she was rummaging through the drawers of her dressing table, "this is for the best—it won't be so terrible…" But even when her hand succeeded in finding the brass key that she had been looking for, she could already feel her resolve dissolving into a cloud of tears.

"I am not afraid." She muttered, shaking her head to remove any sorts of self pity, this time when Will spoke she sounded far more believable. "Why would I be?"

* * *

Gallantries always sounded better in theory, Will could appreciate that now as she stood facing the oak door of the cottage; a piece of wood that she had been staring at for ten minutes…at least. And even before that, she had a hell of a time getting here.

She had managed to make it out of the tree by her window alright—sustaining only minimal damage from the fall that she had endured after a particularly traitorous branch had cracked under her weight.

It was only then that she had noticed that she had forgotten her shoes…well, that didn't truly cause her that much distress, but seconds after _that_ she'd observed that she was wearing her bedclothes…and her hair was simply horrible!

'_What a strange state you are in!'_ her conscience had teased, referring not to her apparel but to her train of thought. _'I have noticed that recently you have been thinking about your appearance more and more.'_

If there had been a way to bash that little voice into oblivion without injuring herself, Will would have done it then. So frustrated was she with its condescending commentary! But she continued on, taking long, powerful strides across the grass—before changing her mind and retreating to the security of her precious Elm tree.

Now this was just becoming disgraceful, Will had resolved, she wasn't really this pathetic. And so, jaw fixed and shoulder's squared, she headed off towards the cottage once more, this time walking _leisurely_—with each step she reassured herself of her upcoming success.

And when she had finally made it; she of course, hadn't been able to muster the courage needed in order to _open_ the door.

The cool night wind blistered her exposed skin; her feet were damp and caked in slippery mud due to her walk across the lawn; her toes now were beginning to feel numb because of her tensely rolling on balls of her feet against the rough stone that formed the stoop. All of this of course just added to the overwhelming misery that was stitched onto her very core.

_This is stupid Will—you can do this!_

Biting the corner of her lip, closing her eyes, Will pushed the key into its lock…and waited with bated breath for that tell tale click.

"I told you that I wasn't afraid." She grinned to herself, knowing that she at least must look at lot braver than she felt.

The door opened on its own accord, as though aided by some ghostly man servant.

"Caleb?" She called from the stoop. No answer. _Shit!_ She hadn't wanted to go inside! No, the plan had been to tell him what was what while remaining outside where she was safest from his advances—and her own imminent surrender.

Well, there was no turning back now. Swallowing the bile that had crept up the walls of her stomach to cling to her throat, Will pushed open the heavy door and grudgingly inched her way into the darkness of the house.

Sudden warmth engulfed her small body, and once again she was made painfully aware of the fact that she was clad simply in a mere nightdress with only a robe shielding the majority of her virtue.

'_A wonderful final memory of you he'll have.'_

* * *

"Caleb?" Will repeated. And as per usual only the sound of her disturbed voice replied. He must be upstairs, she noted…in the _bedroom_. Her stomach clenched reflexively propelling more of that same tart taste into her mouth.

"You could have done this in the morning," Will lectured herself as she took step after grave step up the narrow staircase that led to the bed chambers. "And stop calling him Caleb—his name is Mister Olsen…"

Her voice drowned in her throat—she had arrived—and she had spotted him; suddenly she found that it was much harder to breathe.

_Calm down!_ She clamped her eyes shut and pressed a frigid hand to her forehead.

He was asleep; lying spread-eagled atop of the covers…bare-chested…_oh God_. This wasn't going to be easy. Why couldn't anything ever be easy?

Resisting the urge to run away; ignoring the heated blush that was currently coloring her cheeks red, she walked cautiously over to his bedside. "Mister Olsen." she called, rejecting the urge to look at him; refusing to comment on just how gorgeous he looked sleeping.

Still, no answer…

So, what was he, deaf?

Her chest was threatening to collapse if her heart continued to hammer away at her rib cage so frantically, yet she reached out to touch his slumbering form…well it was only to awaken him, and so the contact was warranted, and even so she was simply pinching his nose (a flawless method that had always worked with Irma).

And it worked with him as well, for only seconds later he awoke with a start—only to grab her offending arm in his vice like grip. The next few moments played out like a dream—Will tugged her hand away as though she had been stung, almost retching at his touch. Her breaths started coming in short gasps—and from the pain being emitted from her chest; she could only assume that it had already fallen in.

How, _how _could he do this to her?

She swallowed, looking into his confused eyes with an expression that spoke of bewilderment and panic. "Will?" was his question; although by now it had become quite obvious that it could be no one else.

A thousand jumbled thoughts, all preaching of what she should have done (remained in her bedroom) pounded in her mind. She avoided his gaze at all costs; knowing that to look at him would be ensuring suicide.

_Do you see now?_ She thought; _this is why I have to do this! It's driving me mad!_

"Is something wrong?" He asked after a moment's pause. "Did something happen—is that why you're here?"

Still half naked he practically jumped to her feet and walked towards her, and childishly, Will responded with a small shriek and backed away from him until she ran into the bedroom wall.

"N-no," he had stopped walking, obviously surprised by her behavior—well that made two of them. "I came here," she cleared her throat and fixed her gaze on the clear night sky outside the window, "to speak with you."

"Now?" he smirked, she could feel it. "What's so important that you needed to come see me _now_?"

There was an insult here, she knew, but currently she was far too submerged in dark feelings of panic, wretchedness and anger to think much of trying to destroy his ego. "I-I…" the redhead swallowed a mouthful of the crisp night air, willing the flavor to calm her frantic nerves. It might have worked had he not decided then to step closer to her at that moment, reaching across the tension filled air that separated them to place a gentle hand on her chin, tenderly pulling her face towards his.

"Why aren't you looking at me?" Had he really wanted an answer he wouldn't have laid a hand on her. She was so exceptionally aware of the heat of his fingers on her frigid skin…and when those same fingers pressed against her velvety lips, slowly parting them—the tumultuous emotions that were rampant in her chest erupted.

She could feel his eyes on her face, burning holes in her flesh due to their sheer intensity of his looking; she had wanted so much to be the ice queen—but already she could feel him thawing her. The crowd of treacherous ideas and expressions that she had so vigilantly buried deep within her heart were being exhumed by the power of his staring…

_My mother knows_—that's all Will, go on now.

"I don't know what I'm doing." She blurted out forthwith, carrying the treason one step further by seeking out his heated gaze in the darkness. "I-I…" she paused and gasped…she was drowning once more, she just knew it. Will was fighting now…kicking and thrashing away at the bottom of this lake, burdened by her own accursed desires; here she was; fighting for her life; for her sanity…only to realize that it was far more than likely that she wanted to drown.

"I never know what I'm doing when I'm near you." It was too late now she realized, and judging from the blood that was presently making its way to her face, she knew that it was potentially a very good idea to get the remainder of this foolishness out of her system soon…and then to make a speedy retreat. "And I don't know why…" _All you needed to do was to tell him those three small words,_ "…and I spent my entire day thinking about you," _you could have avoided all of this—do you have any idea of what you're even saying?_ "But I know that I…missed you." Already she could feel his arm as it snaked around her waist—pulling her under, "Oh God, I missed you…"

The finale of her mindless confession was impeded with the unexpected collision of his lips with her forehead; they slowly grazed against her sweaty skin, creating a slight friction that warmed her entire body. A trembling sigh escaped her lips, never, had she anticipated that something this small could force her insides to melt. But here she was, dissolving in his arms, agonizingly smoldering in that never-ending flame of lust…and yet, begging the fire to consume the rest of her.

She had expected him to kiss her on the mouth as he normally did—but given the ridiculous nature of her mind and conduct for the day, she was entirely grateful for anything that he gave her.

He loosened his grip on her, and pulled his hand away from her lips, running it trough her hair instead. Now more than ever she wished that she had had the foresight to run a brush through the scarlet locks.

* * *

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable—simply _unwanted_…she felt exceedingly foolish after her outburst, and now she all but prayed for him to say _something_; to laugh; or even to echo her foolish words…because the silence was like a thousand blades tearing away at her self confidence.

Half expecting a meltdown; Will peeled his hands away from her body before staring blankly at her bare feet. "You should get dressed." She mumbled. It had become obvious that her mission was a _total_ failure, which wasn't surprising; nothing ever went right around him. He could erase each and every one of her rational thoughts with the meager slanting of his eyebrow. She was powerless against him…she had surrendered herself to the unavoidable heartbreak that he would cause her; one way or another.

She knew that she should run away now—this was too much, she couldn't bear it. "I-I should go…I shouldn't have come here in the first place." Eyeing the staircase covetously, she forced every ounce of autonomy that she had into her feet, but that still wasn't enough to get her away from him.

* * *

He had been plausibly very surprised when he had awoken to find her hovering over him…and for one long instant he had believed that this had been a part of one of his dreams; that was of course, until she had yanked her arm away and stumbled haphazardly backwards, in what could only be described as her fruitless attempt to become one with his bedroom wall.

Sadly—_very sadly_, although not surprisingly, his hedonistic plan to allow himself the privilege of savoring her mouth and body; if only so he could concentrate on his work—was a _total_ failure.

The dreams had worsened if anything, which was serious considering that last one, had been—disturbingly _graphic_ to put it mildly. Now, the act of physical intimacy had disappeared completely from his imaginings; now, when he closed his eyes there was only the sound of her laughter in his mind, the sight of her blushing face and the feel of her trembling lips…this time, when he had awakened he wasn't afraid that she would drive him to do something that he would regret, rather he was guarded against the fact that he was potentially becoming every bit of the besotted fool that Taranee had predicted.

He had wanted to kiss her; to run his hands along her porcelain flesh and to bury his fingers in her scarlet hair—he had even gone so far as to consider the concept of pulling her into bed with him and seeing where that led. That idea had come tumbling down around him when she had opened her mouth. Her admission had shrunken him; and severed the strings of his dignity.

It was shameful how he had used her, all because she had so effortlessly exhibited such unflinching control over his emotions and desires. Yesterday—it had deepened, he had seen her for what she really was, a strong, beautiful and intelligent girl—no, _woman_. And now he knew, that the only thing that he could do for her was break her heart, her careful assertion had ensured him of that, she too was falling…now, he was certain that Wilhelmina Vandom was far too good for him, and that _this_, all of _this _needed to end.

_Now._

_His_ feelings—they were distracting, but really, they were a torment that he would eventually teach himself to endure. The idea of her suffering because of that myth that she had begun to believe about him…that was something that he wasn't certain that time would heal.

He had obeyed her command, more as a chance to hide the letters that Taranee had given him this morning, than because of actual modesty. Never one to let something as trivial as disease get in the way of her work, Taranee had scribbled all sorts of notes on several pieces of paper and thrust them into his hands the moment that he had entered the house today. Orders that included feeding her horse and returning some keys that she had borrowed from the Countess; and notes about Phobos that he had been reviewing when he'd fallen asleep.

Glad that Will was apparently distracted with her feet for the moment, he tucked the documents away safely behind the headboard.

"You…don't have to go," he began without looking at her, without thinking about what he was saying. "I mean, you…what did you mean by you wanted to talk?"

"It was nothing," he could scarcely hear her anguished tone.

"Nothing?" Casually he took a seat on his unmade bed and folded his arms across his chest. His eyes watched her somber face, which was gracefully painted by the dusk; she almost eclipsed the lady moon with her guiltless beauty, forcing the broken fragments of light to take the role of a shadow...in his mind anyway.

He swallowed to clear his head, "if it was nothing then why did you come here now?" He regretted the words the second that they'd left his mouth—she'd already told him why; and the answer wasn't honestly something that he wanted to hear repeated.

"_Why?_" her voice, amazingly carried a twinge of humor at the end. "Did I frighten you?"

"Of course not," he replied, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, "what do you weigh; six, seven stone? Oh yes, you're terrifying, really."

She laughed slightly, a sound that made his spirits rise significantly. "If you must know I've been having an intruder problem since I've been staying here."

"Are you serious?" She clasped her hand over her mouth, making her expression hard to discern.

"Very." It wasn't a complete fib; Taranee had scared the shit out of him on more than one occasion. "Did you ever have that problem when you were living here?"

"No, because you see _I_ had the common sense the lock the window."

"_You_ came through the door."

"But _I_ have the keys." As if to toss salt onto his already very large wounds (which she probably would enjoy doing in any case), Will flaunted the tiny metal object in her hand by dragging it through the air.

"I suppose that you think that that's very clever." He rolled his eyes and shifted his gaze over to the window.

"Not really," sighing, she walked past him to tamper with the porthole. "_This_, I think is very clever." With extreme patience, and as though directing a child, she reached for the latch, and swung the wooden flap shut, immediately engulfing the room in absolute darkness.

* * *

He gulped, _oh she had to have known that that would happen_; although, his own heightened awareness of both her company and their awkward situation—well, he wasn't too sure that she wasn't complete ignorant about that.

He heard her fumbling with the latch seconds after, speaking only to emit apologies and curses, simultaneously, he might add. "So, do you expect a round of applause?" He spoke only to draw her attention away from the window, for after an entire half a second of _itch_ driven meditation; he had decided that the concept of being alone with her…for at least one night wasn't at all unpleasant.

_Now_…would have to be postponed. Tomorrow was a far more pleasing date.

"Well, I did just save your life." She replied, although not abandoning her efforts to encourage the moonlight.

He waited for a long minute, listening to her on going struggle with the latch. "Are you afraid of the dark?" he questioned, this time with no ulterior motive; he was simply curious to see is she actually had such a frivolous crack in her armor.

"No, it's just that…" her voice vanished, turning into a laugh sometime during its path to destruction. "…Nothing."

He didn't pursue the topic any longer; besides, after his inquiry, she seemed content to submit. The subsequent hush swallowed them both; the carefully modulated hum of his breathing and her slightly more erratic gasps, were the only sounds in the room now.

"I imagine that you must be incredibly proud of what you've done to me." She spoke at last.

He wished that he could feign incomprehension, or at least nonchalance, but he knew better than to even attempt such—blasphemy. "As a matter of fact, I happen to like you better this way."

"Why?" She breathed.

The answer to that question was one that he had already deciphered—it just also happened to be the one thing that he stubbornly refused to consider. "Can't I ever just tell you something without you always asking me; why?"

"No, you can't." She snapped.

"It's annoying."

"Good."

* * *

More silence slipped into the room, although this time it was far more awkward in its origin.

"Come here." He broke first; the last thing that he wanted was for her to be angry at him—arguably, he'd have enough of that tomorrow. Tonight, he wanted to hold her; to immerse himself in that wonderful aroma of her…that sweet spicy scent that clawed at his very soul…and to forget what awaited them both come tomorrow.

"I've told you that you shouldn't tell me what to do."

"Please?" He groaned. That did it, whether it was from the shock of actually hearing him beg, or solely based on the fact she truly wanted to…She complied, and joined him on the opposite side of the bed

Well, it had been a start, and he was grateful for the fact that she had at least agreed to the first part of his request on her own accord. But that hadn't been what he had meant, although Caleb (with good reason) still didn't trust his mouth to accurately convey his intentions in a non-offensive manner.

He rearranged himself so that he was sitting up in bed, with his back against the mahogany headboard, and then motioned for her (with his hand outstretched as a means of welcome) to join him.

She hesitated…but that pause he had anticipated; a virgin's qualms, he had readily dismissed it as. It was only after a full minute and a half of her _virgin's qualms_ did he make up his mind to bite the bullet. "So I get it now; _you're afraid of me_."

"I'm…don't be stupid." Will narrowed her cinnamon colored eyes at his accusation.

"_I would never hurt you_…you know that, right?"

He honestly had never taken the time to consider the irony of that statement…Or what he would have done had she said "_no"_. Luckily, he would never have to. Not now at least. "I know," she whispered and so to prove the point, she crawled forward to take his hand.

* * *

Her skin was freezing, Caleb recalled, but he expected that his was most likely no warmer. It was clumsy work; positioning her in front of him; adjusting her petite body so that they could both be comfortable…which certainly meant that she was touching him as little as possible. His body was already alight with the unadorned thought of having her so close to him—if she were to run her hands against his skin; well, he just might burst into flame…so to speak.

He folded his arms across her, positioning his hands very carefully; very lightly beneath her ribcage. She was holding her breath, he noticed; something that worried him more than he thought that it should. Was she in reality so nervous about this? If such was the case then maybe he should just…stop.

Those ponderings disappeared instantaneously when she sighed, just audible over the scolding of his conscience, and relaxed her spine, allowing her back to curve fully into the embrace. He rested his head atop of her wild cherry tresses, and finally her hands grazed his own before their fingers intertwined above her stomach.

Presently, the silence wasn't so unbearable; the feeling of her chest, rising and falling on top of his was implausibly soothing. He could picture an overwhelming feeling of loss once she decided to go back to her house—or once he told her of the finer points of this relationship (if that was even what it was).

* * *

He dragged his hands along the smooth skin of her arms, mesmerized by the goose flesh that his touch left there. "What this?" He inquired after encountering a rather large raised scar near her elbow. From the looks of it, he suspected that it was the memento of some particularly idiotic tryst.

She turned her head to see what he was looking at, "Oh, the doctor cut me when I caught chicken pox at finishing school."

"Were you ever not sick?"

"Nope, I can't say that I remember being healthy for too long." She admitted with a good natured chuckle. "Why? Are you immune?"

"I wish that it was like that." He replied vaguely, thinking of the swelling of turbulent emotions in his chest as well as his immune system; still he carefully replaced her arm.

"Isn't this strange though?" Will expressed. "A few days ago we couldn't stand each other…and now look."

"Well, I think that despite everything you've put me through, that you are easily the best thing about your family." He concluded with a yawn. Morning was breaking; he suspected that outside the closed window's lattice that ribbons of pinks and cerulean were fluttering across the lilac sky.

"Well, you won't get far with that attitude because the rest of the clan will be here by Thursday…" The wedding—_right_; Will bit her lit in frustration…why couldn't she escape it?

Suddenly uncomfortable, she shifted her weight so that she was leaning less against him in the bed. Abruptly, the wistfulness of this scene abandoned her, leaving her to fend for herself in the harsh moors of reality, and truthfully, she wasn't handling herself too well.

She was nervous—and it occurred to her that that was extremely inconvenient emotion to be feeling at this particular moment, but yet, there was nothing she could do to chase it away. Her heart was dancing erratically in her chest, something that she was certain that he was well aware of, due to his—closeness.

She was being silly _again_; her anxiousness was perfectly justifiable, especially seeing as she was so…_inexperienced _when it came to these things. She was completely unsure of what to do, so she stayed still, exceedingly afraid that if she spoke he'd vanish (like he should) so she remained quiet, focusing on the steady thumping of his heart against her shoulder blade.

This was all too perfect—if she said anything…especially anything about _that_, the entire thing would be ruined. She just wanted to loose herself in this fantasy for a little while longer; tomorrow when she awakened the dream would come to an end.

It was strange almost, Will thought, because of all the stories that her Governess had ever read to her as a child, she had been able to identify with Cinderella the least of all. Yet, here she was, dutifully waiting for the clock to strike twelve, for all of her heart's desires to fade into nothingness.

* * *

"I should leave now," she whispered shortly, there was no use in prolonging the inevitable. "I don't want my mother worrying about where I've gotten off to."

She disentangled their limbs, unhurriedly, reluctantly, and then turned to face him. "Good night."

He echoed her farewell, and she didn't wait for anything else; the pieces of her heart were crumbling with every second that she hesitated, and she wouldn't allow him to see her broken.

Her retreat was delayed when his hand darted out from the darkness to grab hold of her wrist. Unable to deny himself the pleasure any longer, Caleb pulled her towards him in one quick, sharp jerk, covering her mouth with his before she could even find time to protest.

Her surrender was uninhibited, her lips moved fiercely against his, all reserve forgotten. This was everything that she had ever wanted, every lonely cry of her soul. In this kiss lay a thousand wishes and wants, all unfulfilled, but still she wanted him to know…

Her hands reached into the unruly layers of brown silk—his hair and pulled him closer wanting more—oh so much more; but unsure of what exactly _more_ was.

Her lips were burning, and she was certain that he was the only one who could quench the flame. With each gasp, with each caress—his tongue; his mouth led her towards something that was essentially too good to resist.

"Caleb…" she whispered against his mouth, although Will doubted that he heard much, because his lips were sliding over hers again in a heartbeat. In this kiss lay the goodbyes; the apologies; the fights. This was everything that could have been and wasn't. This was them admitting defeat.

Inside she was screaming, driven half mad by the growing emotions within her heart. Gone was the fear, at least temporarily…that little girl inside of her that she had tried so hard to keep safe, _she_ had vanished. And when he pulled away, panting—she stared at him, confused; curious; fascinated. Her entire body was trembling, unable to withstand the pressure of these feelings for much longer. She swallowed, tasting him on her lips.

"Caleb," she whispered, already dissolving just because she knew that all of his attention was on her. "I-I…" she didn't know what to say, how to put the rush of spiritual intoxication into words. No, words wouldn't do then…not right now.

With a steady hand she touched the shirt that she had insisted that he put on earlier. Her breath was trapped in her chest, unable to move because truthfully, there was no space left in the cavern. With infinite care her fingers worked on the buttons of his shirt, all the while a bright red color staining her pale cheeks; but too far gone to even consider stopping.

He did it for her, casually he reached for her tiny pale hand; briefly she registered just how small she was in comparison to him. He brought her fingers to his lips and blessed each one with the tenderest of kisses. Then, he folded her hands neatly in her lap, "Good night Will." He whispered.

She nodded, too overcome to even query his behavior…or to even feel humiliated; although she assumed that the shame would find her tomorrow—err— later today. Quietly, she turned and exited the bedroom, looking back once to glimpse him one last time; because she knew that upon their next meeting…it wouldn't be the same.

* * *

If the castle merely _appeared_ terrible in the daytime—then at night, it defined the feeling of fright. It loomed ever so dreadfully over the swamps and forests beneath it; its dreadful towers and arcs, all centuries old perhaps, still managed to evoke a gothic sort of grace when silhouetted against that twilight canvas named sky.

He knew, as he had known all of his life, that the people of the village below all believed the building was deserted; haunted at most. And perhaps they were correct in their beliefs. After all, what man in his right mind would willingly inhabit such a dreary place? No man, merely a specter—a lonely vengeful one, who was cursed to wander this earth forever; searching, though never finding…something.

_Someone._

_Her._

Oh no, the house hadn't _always_ been this forlorn; this desolate. Regardless of how it had always looked on the outside, within, deep within, she had always managed to paint the rooms of this house with the colors of happiness.

Her sweet voice, a melody that could be so effortlessly compared to the precious hymn of the stars, would probably haunt him until his dying day. Once, such had been a sound that had brought with it the feelings of exquisite joy—of ecstasy so splendid that it was impossible to describe it with mere words.

But now—her voice only added to the unimaginable torment of this house. Her words had become a siren's song. A tune that would slowly; tauntingly beckon him; dragging him towards his poetic demise. To a death that was truly more mental than physical and hence, one that he was determined to stop.

The destruction of his body, he could accept; after all, his body was merely a prison in which his soul was trapped; upon his death—well, he'd be free, that was certain. But the deterioration of his mind was obviously more than he could, or would take.

Bittersweet madness! Oh yes, he would give a thousand fortunes to spend his nights being lulled asleep by her harmonious voice, so long as it was sung by her and not by his memories. Yes, he would offer up his life itself in order to know that she was safe, to know that she still was alive.

"Gods Elyon," he whispered, staring into the fire and glaring at the dance of the flames; but seeing only her face there. "What I do, I do to grant you life."

These were those thoughts that had polluted his mind ever since the night of her death, then he had prayed, and cried to a deaf God…hoping against all hopes that she would somehow reappear at his side…to dance again; to sing.

But she had remained an immobile corpse; silent; unseeing; death had claimed her for its own.

_That selfish bastard._

What right had he—what right did he have to take her away from him! She was all he had, his entire world embodied…without her, this life had become meaningless. How long had he wandered; aimlessly; pathetically; hoping for death, for the ability to embrace it on his own.

But then he had ceased to take solace in such silly ideas—for his grief had transformed itself into something far more sinister: if the Gods were impassive to his plight—then he should play God shouldn't he? He should become the master of his own destiny, the weaver of his own yarn.

And those thoughts had become intensified each time he heard her voice—every time that he saw her flaxen head skip along those corridors; trapped forever in the dawn of life—or perhaps dragged far too quickly to experience the sunset.

It was then he had known: there was no other way.

And so he had become every bit of the monster that the villagers talked about…All to bring her back to him, and to a lesser and far less important extent: to this world.

_The beast in the castle_; they would say to their trembling children; oh yes, for even he had heard their stories—tales traded over steaming mugs of ale and whispered later that night to those wide eyed youngsters, ensuring a night's worth of demonic nightmares. _Oh, he'll swoop down through the chimney for you; _or perhaps_: he'll drink your blood lass,_ or sometimes even; _he's been dead for over a thousand years, and he searches for his still beating heart._

Phobos rose from his large armchair, forcibly ignoring the perfume of age that followed him as he moved, and walked towards that night's supper, or more particularly, that night's Brandy; its amber tint collecting the tears of the crescent moon.

_She_ hated it when he drank; he could recall her words even now, "_it inpairs the mind_." She would quote her governess directly, and then run off to hide with his alcohol in hand.

But now, more than ever, he found himself addicted to its bitter, spicy and warm taste. He longed for the sweet caresses of the liquor as it made its way into his body. And of course he desired all that it had hinted at; sweet ignorance; cherished deliverance from his feelings of guilt…

Such horrendous thoughts that had begun to infest his mind only recently; that perhaps those girls hadn't deserved to die—that perhaps his plan wouldn't work.

_Nonsense_; all of it, and it would fade in due time once her voice entered his ears once again.

Oh, that sweet lullaby, the drink slipped over his tongue without him tasting it, and his barely had time to register the feeling of warmth that surged in his stomach as welcome.

This no longer helped, he realized; soon nothing would be able to quell these sensations…_Elyon, oh God, help me!_

Silence—mocking silence, something that he had craved for so long but now, upon receiving it, found himself very displeased by its presence. Without thinking he flung the glass against the wall, spraying his hand with whatever was left of his drink; if only to hear the crash of crystal as it collided with stone. The wall would win, he knew, the hard, cold stone would forever prove victorious in such a battle.

Breathless from the outburst, his eyes lingered on the assorted jars that were constantly displayed in his bedroom. Even the moon seemed to be afraid of them—for tucked away in this corner, quite plainly he might add, were the fruits of his labor, currently lost in the darkness, invisible unless one knew exactly where to look.

His treasures, his collections; he had gathered them all like a magpie; a wig of the most golden curls, a pair of the bluest eyes he had ever gazed upon; and of course, perfect white teeth, extracted from his victim with the utmost care.

Elyon had loved to smile after all, her teeth would be very important.

* * *

A knock at his chamber door destroyed his thoughts, and so, straightening his back he approved the intrusion. Cedric, his loyal friend and servant entered his sanctuary, walking with brisk, large steps until he was comfortably standing before him.

"What is it?" Phobos asked, careful to verbalize his annoyance.

"A letter came for you my Lord." Cedric announced his thin lips curved into a slight smile as he continued: "It is from that girl again."

Phobos frowned, feeling more than impatient. Once he had tolerated that child's cries of teenaged heartbreak and angst. Once her thoughts had reminded him so much of Elyon's that he had relished in listening to her fears and desires; but now, he had grown tired with their correspondence; not only that but he no longer had the time for such fantasies, not when the reality was only a hair's breadth away.

She was simply no use to him any more; actually it would be better to sever contact all with her before things got more…serious.

"I still wonder how she found my address. Or why the damned post master still insists on delivering things to this house! I swore that they all believe it to be deserted."

"Now, now, my Lord." Cedric extracted the letter from the pocket of his trousers; the blotchy marks, the powerful aroma of cologne—yes, it was her. "I believe that this time, it may be important to us. There is a wedding approaching, now would be the perfect time to strike."

"Now?" Phobos echoed, "At a wedding?"

"The family will be distracted, no one will notice until it is too late."

Phobos shook his head feeling dubious. "Forgive me Cedric, if I appear to be a bit of a _misanthropist,_ but at these weddings, _the brides_ are _always _the center of attention. We won't be able to get her."

"She speaks of her family; a large group is coming from what I gather. You know the house like the back of your hand in any case. As long as this is executed properly, we will have no problems. We'll steal her away from the house before they even realize that she's gone, since there are so many of them…the chaos will be unimaginable. I implore you Master, you mustn't allow this chance to pass us by."

Phobos imagined that this was what had attracted him to Cedric initially. The man had a certain charm about him—one that could be easily compared to the persuasive techniques used by a serpent to lure Adam and Eve out of their Eden. Right now, the picture that he had painted of their plan seemed impossible to resist.

"I would hate for my strategy to be ruined Cedric; especially when I am so close to what I want." His gaze instinctively ran to the fire again, and contained by the flames he swore that he could see Elyon dance.

"The plan is flawless my Lord." His voice lowered to a barely audible hiss, "_trust me_."

"My, my," Phobos continued, his mind was already decided, a fact that he trusted Cedric to already know. "A wedding…that was fast, even by her Mother's standards."

Cedric bowed his head in acknowledgment before slipping the letter into his pocket. "It would be such a shame to disappoint them; after all, you were invited."

Phobos smiled as the red glare of the fire caked his face. "No, no disappointments, merely _surprises_."

* * *

**Author:** Congrats to those who guessed right, the shit will hit the fan at the Ball. Won't that be fun? And guess who invited Phobos—yeah, I know. Hehehehe. Yeah, I know that some of you thought that Phobos was coming for Will right? Well, I knew that if I made him kidnap Will, then this wouldn't be a WillxCaleb fic anymore. Catch my drift?

Anyway, thanks for all of the support—long time reviewers like Ruberta and hells agent and gabys heart and Shalbrenfan and probably a gazillion more of you that I can't remember right now because it's 2 am and I'm sleep deprived. But thanks!

I'm going to be 18 tomorrow the 28th, and I'll celebrate it by going back to school. Whoopee, it's like a dream come true. Math first thing in the morning, heh, I'm always the oldest. Updates will slow as a result; I don't know how bad senior year will be to me. I'm really disappointed that I didn't get to finish this story by the end of summer…Ah well. I don't know why I thought that I could, I've got at least seven more chapters left. Probably more…


	15. Chapter 15

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

Chapter Fifteen

* * *

Oh sweet misery, that rose with the sun that morning, clinging to the virgin horizon in a flurry of pinks and blues. It danced a little, sang a lot and soon, too soon its fingers grew tired of holding onto the burning line and so misery was released, deciding to exercise its feet instead, dancing with the strands of daylight, drenching the world in despair.

Yet again, Will hadn't been able to enjoy the peaceful companionship of slumber last night, although this time that was owing to the fact that she had simply refused to accept its invitation to dine. She felt drained and weak, lightheaded and wretched. And of course she couldn't convince her heart that it shouldn't be depressed although she was, after all, doing the right thing.

She had crept into her bedroom sometime this morning with hot tears biting at the backs of her eyes and the taste of untouched sorrow collecting in her windpipe. It had been her intention to go straight to bed—to fall asleep and awaken stronger, braver somehow…but instead she had collapsed on the floor, in the space below her window, weighted down by the memories that she could feel in this gloomy space.

What had she been trying to do tonight? Even now she wasn't sure, and her pulse only raced when she tried to recall her thoughts at that moment; haziness, confusion and untamed, tender euphoria that had each contributed to the destruction of her heart. Oh she had known what she had wanted to do…to feel him in every way that she possibly could…she had wanted to taste him, to hold him…_everything_.

Never mind that she wasn't entirely sure what exactly _everything _entailed…All through her life the act of procreation had been shrouded in mystery. In finishing school, only curious glances at textbooks and hushed whispers from her upper classed schoolmates had provided her with the only real idea that she had of lovemaking—that it involved kissing and a great deal of nudity. And even that seemed incredibly vague.

_Didn't really seem as though it should be something to aspire towards…especially when the consequences could be so dire._

This was happening far too quickly. She hadn't even known him for a fortnight and she was thinking about…_you know_. Will dragged her hands through her untamable red hair, drumming her fingers against her scalp, as though she could pound sensibility into her brain.

But she had wanted to…and she would have if he hadn't…stopped her. Why had he stopped her in any case? Was she _that_ unappealing? Her fingertips stopped drumming while a cold morning breeze caressed her neck and her stomach dropped. That would explain everything wouldn't it…why he never mentioned anything about Cornelia, because she couldn't really compare to her…why he hadn't canceled the wedding…why he hadn't responded when she'd blurted out all those ridiculous things that had been loose in her mind for so long.

A sob scratched at her already raw throat, she swallowed it, disgusted by the wretched taste. Why was she so upset anyway? She had already decided that she wouldn't let this continue. Today, she'd go and tell him that this was a waste of time. Entirely.

She wasn't so desperate…and she was certain that these terrible sensations would fade away with time, and then some other man would come along…and he would be handsome and brave…and he'd play an instrument…and he'd laugh at her stupid jokes…and he'd ask _her_ to marry _him_ and she wouldn't have to embarrass herself _all the damn time_…

Tears flooded her vision but she closed her eyes to hold them back. Her heart was far too precious to her for her to simply give it away to the first man who told her that she was beautiful.

* * *

Panic, was a horrible bedmate, as Susanna could testify to…damned cretin wouldn't allow her even a few minutes of sleep before describing all the ways that her arrangements could fail her—in a monotone. Bastard.

What she had needed was some whiskey, hard and cold. It was the only thing that she could think of to calm her nerves (especially now since her tonic from Yan Lin had suddenly vanished and the wench had told it that she'd have to pay double if she wanted it back) and to warm her bones. She pulled her night dress closer to her body, God but it was cold tonight. She steadied another slipped foot as she climbed the stairway…hmm, perhaps she should have drunk a lot less of that hard, cold whiskey downstairs.

The stairs swirled before her, a rush of browns and reds…suddenly heavy Susanna felt herself falling…oh yes falling onto the lusciously, delectably warm floor. It smelt of mud, she wondered what it tasted of…oh yes; it tasted of copper…like a coin.

"I drink it hot, I drink it cold!" What a lovely song—it reminded her of the times of her youth, "A whiskey for my Johnny! I drink it new, I drink it old." What was that…no, that was Johnny? Who was this Johnny cad in any case? I believe that I was married to him, that hooligan, drank all of her whiskey he did. She'd had to stop him before he made off with the Brandy as well.

Oh there it was again…moaning…sobbing…Will?

Her brain felt as though it had dissolved, as she turned she could feel the contents of her skull sloshing around. And the contents of her stomach…oh dear.

With heavy limbs she turned the door knob and crawled inside of her eldest daughter's bedroom, squinting into the soft darkness, trying to make out her daughter's petite form. "Will, what the bloody hell are you doing up?" She had wanted to say, although in her mind, in her delirious state it sounded much more like: "Still, far in the runny bucket with luck."

The girl was huddled in a corner, with her knees curled up to her chest and her head bowed in the space. Upon noticing her intrusion she immediately wiped her face clean with the backs of her hands and jumped to her feet. Her very _wet_ feet Susanna noticed…yet, the floor wasn't wet.

"I…couldn't sleep," Will explained, she had never heard her mother's question but she naturally felt incredibly guilty, and so had decided that it was obligatory that she clarify herself. "So I was…err…thinking."

"Y-Your feet are…wet," Susanna stuttered and she too staggered to the perpendicular, although with a great deal more effort.

"Yes…well…are you drunk?" Will squinted at the swaying figure of her mother, flinching only once when she collapsed onto the floor in a messy heap.

"As a skunk!" Was the response, "but that doesn't change the situation…I can hold my liquor, my daddy taught me how! Daddy was never sober for more than an hour in his life…and no one was ever the wiser." And she clamored into a standing position once more, this time with the reluctant support of a nearby wall. "Now, why are your feet wet…and why is your window open?"

Will turned to survey the opened window with mounting irritation—had she been that distracted that she forgot to clean off her feet and…why was her Mother even doing this—she already knew, did she need a confession? "Well, Will?" Susanna carefully stalked closer, whilst Will backed away. "Why?"

"I was hot…" Ignoring the goose-pimples and the numbness that had claimed her feet and hands Will began a long winded explanation of how she had opened the window to welcome the frigid night breeze.

"But I-I'm so c-cold."

"Well, you must realize mother that you aren't as young as you once were…"

"Nonsense! I'm not even forty yet!" She sat on the bed and stared into her bottle of Scotland's finest…or at least what was left of it. "You were out tonight, weren't you?"

"No…"

"Don't lie to me Wilhelmina."

"I'm not lying…why would I go out in the middle of the night?"

Oh, there were several reasons…all of which Susanna was certain that Will would deny; she frowned. Outside, the virgin pink developed into a barren fuchsia and spread across the cerulean heavens…like a blush across the face of a lovesick girl.

"I know Will," she sighed finally deciding that perhaps trickery wasn't the best way to deal with this. "That I haven't been the best Mother for you…but I do love you, and I do care about _all of you_…it's the only reason that I do these things…do you understand."

Will stared at her Mother blankly, but nodded since that seemed to be what the woman wanted. She continued, brushing a handful of her raven hair back into the braid at her nape, "And I know that sometimes it doesn't seem as though I know what I'm doing—or that what I'm doing is fair or right, and sometimes…I swear to you, I don't _want_ to do these things but…but Will, it _is_ right and…I _do_ know what's _best for us_."

"Why are you telling me this?" Will wanted her to explain that she _knew_, that she'd seen and she'd been disgusted, that she thought that she was little more than a whore, because that could potentially be the only thing that would chase away the remainder of the envious doubts in her head.

"Because…I want you to realize Will, that there are some times in life when you'll have to choose between what you _want_ and what others _need_. And that you should always pick the need…because what you want is oftentimes very selfish. And you can't be selfish when you have a family."

Will dropped her gaze, her heart thundering loudly in her chest. "I know Mother."

"Good." She got to her feet, but fell only seconds later, undaunted, she continued, "now, try to get some rest…" she swallowed another mouthful of the Whiskey, "…we're fitting you for the bridesmaid dresses later today."

* * *

To Taranee's great disapproval, the food poisoning hadn't faded with time, well, perhaps it would have had it been allowed the time to settle in peace. From the very second that Susanna had noticed that Taranee had been…_under the weather_…she had taken an entire second to offer her tips for a cure, give her a cup of tea, hand some broth, and then she had spent the rest of the day pushing fabric samples under the space in the door of the out-house.

Even today, she had been awakened mere seconds after the sunrise to decide on _flowers _of all things. Who the hell cared! She had wanted to scream, God I'd be gone already if you and your demon children hadn't tried to lay claim to my insides! Even now she had to resist the urge to stay on as the wedding planner if only to torch the chapel and watch Susanna's face as the entire wedding curled into ashes.

"You're smiling Taranah," Susanna chirped over the pile of sketches on her lap, "you like Jasmines too I see." Oh yes, Jasmines shoved far up your ass! Taranee couldn't withhold a low chuckle.

"I'm glad that…you can k-keep your humor…even through all of this," Susanna blinked hard and held her head in her hands, rocking forward in her chair steadily. That headache was nothing compared to the one that was currently eating away at Taranee's sanity, she was certain…heh; see women naturally couldn't bear anything! Why, she looked little more than drunk, oh yes…she could smell it on her, the witch was drunk! Now would be the perfect time to extract some information…

"Why are you pushing the wedding up…_M-Madame_?" Taranee leaned forward in her bed to hear the answer in case it came in the form of a whisper.

"Oh, you know…why wait?" She laughed softly.

Taranee nodded but inside her frustrations were planning a lynching. To control herself she fell backwards into the multitude of pillows and started clawing at the nearest one with her teeth, something that she had started doing last night, to help with the pains. It hadn't helped really, and a hole had already begun to form through which several feathers were finding an escape route…and damn it all because she was allergic to feathers.

Susanna watched the mocha skinned woman bite and sneeze with growing apprehension; she was really the worse wedding planner that she could have hoped for! She didn't even seem to know the difference between red and navy blue! And oh god her head was on fire! If she had had someone that she could depend upon she could retire to her chambers for a long rest…but no, she had to be up, watching a crazy woman eat her pillows!

"I'm so sorry that you aren't feeling better, Taranah." Deciding to play it off as a part of the illness Susanna extended a hand to her ailing employee. "It's all Irma's doing as I'm certain that you know, she isn't very excited about this wedding."

"Irma?" Taranee spat out a good three feathers before meeting Susanna's dark eyes, "is that the little red haired one?"

"No," Those same wine colored eyes narrowed instantly, "why do you ask?"

"Oh!" Taranee bit her lip before smiling slyly, "she just seemed like the type who would…you know…poison people."

"She is," Susanna, thankfully, looked away and Taranee coughed up another piece of plumage. "It's just that Irma is far more likely to act upon the impulse."

"So…err…what was her plan exactly? To poison me so that the wedding would be cancelled?"

"No…actually that soup was meant for her sister…but the bowls got mixed…" She stopped when the sound of rattling chains altered the interference of another. "Oh, Hay Lin!" A thin smile spread across the woman's face, although it didn't conceal her discontent.

"Hello Countess Vanaleair!" The oriental girl laughed, almost causing the cutlery on the tray in her hand to topple over. "Do you see what I did, since you've been married _so _many times and have _so_ many last names; I've combined them so that I only have to say one word. It saves air you see, because the birds need the air to fly in and you wouldn't want to…"

"What is it that you want Hay Lin?"

Hay Lin blinked several times before smiling in a good natured sort of way, "Grandmother made a special tea for Taranee. I'm here to…"

"Who's Taranee?"

"I am!" Taranee hissed, all the while her stomach planned a revolt as last night's dinner considered making a hasty exit. "I mean, that's my old name…before you gave me such a better one." She grinned like a blasted fool until Susanna nodded with understanding.

"I'll change your name too Hay Lin, what would that be? Hay Lina?"

Taranee hated the taste of the dry feathers in her mouth, but she bit even further into the cloth until that was all she knew.

Hay Lin didn't complain however, just shook her head slowly. "No, it would be Haya Lin, which just sounds silly, almost as silly as Susanna Vanaleair."

"Well, you're the one who…"

"Can I have my tea now?" Taranee snapped, feathers clinging to her lips and hair.

"Yes, I have to check on Cornelia in any case, we'll talk more about this later Taranah." She stood up with shaky legs and began to walk away, "Hay Lina, have you seen my vial, the one that your grandmother gave me? I seem to have misplaced it, and well, I would like it back."

"No, I haven't seen it Mrs. Countess, but I'll tell you if it turns up." She smiled sweetly, and Susanna nodded whilst walking through the door. It was only when the last shadow of Susanna's face had vanished that Hay Lin dissolved into a fit of giggles.

"What's so funny?" Taranee asked, although she really didn't care for the answer.

"I have her vial," Hay Lin leaned forward and whispered, before clasping a hand over her mouth to conceal her amusement. "I took it." As if to provide evidence she reached into a large purse that she had tied around her waist (the source, Taranee noted, of the previous rattling) and produced a long chain…its pendant was of course, the missing vial.

"Why did you take _that_ of all things?"

"It's pretty," the dark haired girl placed the tea tray atop of the bed and sat in the chair that Susanna had only moments before occupied, she folded her legs underneath her, happily playing with the silver chain, her large brown eyes radiating with excitement as the metal shone and moved against her skin.

"Do you see how it catches the sun?" She continued, no longer speaking to Taranee but to herself. "It's as though you can make a wish with that light…I'd wish for…a boat! No, you don't want a boat Hay Lin, you want a…bird carriage instead…you could touch the moon…"

"How did you manage to get it off of her neck?"

Hay Lin frowned slightly because her wonderful fantasy of moon touching had been ruined, but she grinned anyway. "I don't remember. Sometimes that happens…I forget things…isn't that candleholder pretty!" She jumped from the chair to the bedside table, the necklace, once treasured, swinging limply in her fist.

"Oh…yes…very pretty." Her mind was churning now, and an idea…albeit a very strange and despicable idea was forming…exploding like a flower in bloom within her chest, making her smile, genuinely happy for the first time in days. "Hay Lin why don't you give me that vial."

Hay Lin had long forgotten about Taranee's company, currently she was surveying her distorted reflection in the bronze candleholder with mounting interest. "I said, that I want that vial," and then she surrendered a _please_ to make the barter seem far more pleasant.

"I…don't want you to have it; well I won't give it to you…that's all. But I'll trade!" She perked up with the last piece; her finger's loosening their grip on the candleholder.

"Trade?" _What the hell._ Taranee's chocolate eyes scanned the space looking for something that would capture this twit's fancy. Finally: "I'll give you…feathers," she reached into the hole in her pillow brandishing the useless objects for the girl's fancy. "Oh yes! Feathers…so many…pretty feathers! All for you!"

"For me!" She squealed, and Taranee almost felt dishonorable…like taking sweets from a baby…although the baby was practically a criminal, and they were stolen sweets…well it was for the greater good.

The candleholder tumbled from her distracted hands and hit the floor with a low thump. Hay Lin snatched the feathers away and threw them up into the air, laughing impishly as they fell about her face and caught in her hair. Taranee sneezed.

"Yes, yes, very good…now for the vial." Taranee outstretched her palm.

Hay Lin complied, handing over the long chain without a word of complaint, finding greater joys in kicking the fallen feathers up off of the floor.

Her stomach lurched suddenly, but Taranee ignored the nausea…soon, so very soon, she'd be free of this mess. With that decided she sneezed again.

* * *

"I am just trying to explain to you Yan Lin that there is a hole in my house—one that you promised to fix!" Irma stood casually on the stairway, swiveling her neck from her mother to the elderly Asian woman, watching the exchange and occasionally snorting when her leaking nose got too much to bear.

"I am not a little elf to do your bidding—ah—I will do it when it suits ME and not a moment before! What are you afraid of, only a stupid enemy would walk through that!"

"It doesn't matter, half of my chairs are gone already and…wait enemies…you see enemies…who?" Irma snorted again and her mother spun to look at her. "Irma!" She straightened her back and fixed her rumpled raven tresses, "g-go into the parlor with your sisters."

"I'm beeling wetter now," Irma managed, walking towards her mother, feeling extremely disconnected from the Foyer floor that her feet slapped against.

"No, you're not," Yan Lin snapped, "and she won't change her mind about the Ball either, ah, so just do as she says and go into the parlor…your sister wants you. But I'd stay away from her, yes?"

Irma frowned heavily, she was too feeling better…what did _she_ know anyway, crazy old thing…she bit back a cough. Yan Lin smiled smugly upon seeing the struggle, "I'll make you a broth. And of course your chairs are missing I had to break them down to make a window ledge."

Irma walked away into the stuffy parlor with irritation clawing at her calves. _What the hell did she know?_

* * *

Cornelia had awakened that morning a happy lass. The sun was shining (and not on her) the birds were singing (outside, where she thankfully wasn't) the breeze felt fresh and cool (and that horrendous wind hadn't dared to touch her face to make her look pink and chapped).

And of course: the obvious. Oh yes, just a few more days (three in fact), practically hours until her wedding day, she'd be rid of this house…of her accursed family…free in the arms of that ridiculously handsome man…never mind the feeling of foreboding that she could just sense (one that made the hairs at the back of her neck rise to attention) never mind that the haste seemed unnecessary to say the least…never mind that. It wasn't right to ask too many questions…she should be grateful.

"Will, which of these do you prefer?" She turned to face her brooding sister, two fans held outstretched in her hands.

Will for her part seemed absolutely uninterested…and of course she was, probably daydreaming about running or hiking or some other barbaric activity. But she did answer, giving her a small glance before saying, "The green one."

Cornelia nodded, making a mental note to use the blue.

Another interruption, this time from Irma who sulked inside with her arms crossed in front of her chest. She looked at Cornelia, hissed like a rabid cat and then stomped over to Will's corner, whispering something to the red head that made the girl's jaw slacken.

Cornelia rolled her eyes at the entire ordeal, returning her gaze to the mirror, just a few more days…

* * *

"Wid woo get him to propose wet?" Irma had inquired as soon as she was far enough from Cornelia and near enough for Will to hear the desperation in her voice.

Will didn't reply, actually her mouth twitched as though she was considering an answer but she sighed softly and continued to gaze distractedly out of the widow at the debris and animals scattered across their lawn.

"What's the wroblem ben…I thought you said that he'd kissed boo." The last bit was merely a breath, one that Will obviously didn't want to hear, she made a move that indicated that she intended to leave.

"You know Will…if wit's a problem…we'll have to barry boo if you wet…pregnant."

That got her attention, her face flushed, then reddened as her mouth fell open. "What are you on?"

"Seriously…" Irma looked at Cornelia, who was distracted picking out corsets. "It wakes bense…and wesperate times…"

"I'll never be that desperate!" She snapped. "And you wonder why people say those things about you…"

"Well they waren't bery wice! Everyone just wumped to conclusions aboot we…and…"

"You mean that the rumors aren't true…you haven't…"

"Of bourse I baven't!"

"Right," Will's frown deepened. "Well, I've decided that this is wrong. It's immoral and wrong…very, very wrong and…"

"Boo can't!" Irma grabbed her sister's shoulders and shook her fiercely. "Book at we! I'm mas sick bas a dog…" she coughed loudly before settling into an armchair, where she gasped loudly for breath.

"I never asked you to do anything, so don't try to use…"

"Irma, get your plague infested self out of this room!" Cornelia, her face as white as a sheet and clutching a long piece of cloth to her mouth, exclaimed.

"Bother sent me here." Irma, her voice filled with spite, struck back.

"What?"

"She says that Mother sent her in…" Will began but Cornelia shook off her explanation. "I heard what she said…what I mean is _why_?"

"Far be it from me to explain the complexities of _your_ Mother." Will shrugged, folding her arms across her chest before lowering her eyes to the floor.

Cornelia ran a finger along her chin thoughtfully. "She must want you to help me pick out my ball gown since Will is so obviously _inept_. Wait, haven't you been un-invited from _my _Ball?"

"Bour Ball!" Irma sprang to her feet, glaring at Cornelia as though she could make her burst into flames.

"Yes _my Ball_…What, are you disillusioned enough to believe that someone cared enough about you to throw you anything but _out_!"

"I should wull bour cotton hair _bout_ by its woots!"

"Cotton!"

"I'm going for a walk…" Will announced although she was certain that neither sister heard her, for her head was aching, throbbing terribly and being trapped inside of the confines of this house was not very helpful at all to her disposition.

* * *

If the sunlight was like sugar, being sprinkled generously upon the earth, the cake, then Will was certain that she must be the ant. Angrily devouring everything in her sight, greedy, never satisfied, never wanting to be satisfied; just collecting it all.

Saving it for later…although later might never come.

Will felt miserable, and lost, since she hadn't a clue where her legs were leading her. And right now her aching temples were the least of her worries. For as she walked along the long dusty path that led away from her Mother's house, she saw him, walking towards her…it had to be him…she was so sure of his long, graceful body, so perfectly certain of it even before he paused just as he saw her…frozen in the middle of the road…certain that she wanted to turn and run away, fueled by the fear and the sound of her screaming heart.

But she forced her legs to stay still, even though they were trembling, even though her eyes still kept darting about, looking for something safe to linger on.

She found nothing.

And too soon after; he began to drift nearer.

This had to be fate…stupid, adulterous fate who had known that she would have never had the courage to seek him out wittingly. Or else even if she somehow did find enough guts to talk to him, she would become distracted, as she had last night…

Her face flooded with red at the memory…and her feet retreated a full half a foot, but it was too late, he was already in front of her, drenching her heated body in his shadow.

"H-hello," Will stammered, looking at the darkened shape of him on the dusty yellow road rather than at his face…_at those gorgeous jade eyes_…she didn't need this.

He didn't reply, well of course he didn't; her feeble introduction had sounded pathetic even to her. "Look," she swallowed a large mouthful of oxygen, willing it to strengthen her, "I don't…"

"We shouldn't…see each other more." She heard the words, but it took her an entire minute for her to realize that she wasn't the one who had spoken them.

"No, we…"

"I just don't think that this is fair…to you…considering the situation."

"R-right…I…" Will could feel her heart melting, not in a delightful way as she had grown accustomed to, but in a harsh unfeeling way, one that made her blood run cold and her throat burn…

She needed to hear this, she knew that, furthermore—she had been going to say it…but she had never thought that he would be the one to tell her this. He was forever to be the one who held her and whispered sweet things into her hair.

_Not the one who broke her heart. _

Although she had told herself on countless occasions that this wasn't really serious, and that he never really cared…she had somehow allowed herself to hope that she could have been wrong. That her conscience was merely influenced by fear…the fear of the letting go, of growing up…but hell, she had never believed that he hadn't meant every gentle word that he had ever told her. And the devastation of that sweet hope made feel dizzy and nauseous…now she wanted little more than to run away and hide, to curse herself for being so damn foolish.

"I'm glad that we agree." She murmured, proud at least that she could still manage a sturdy voice.

He nodded, she was certain that did; she had seen the sudden jolt in the shape of his shadow. "Well, goodbye," She smiled at her feet. They were happy at least, they'd stopped shaking.

"Goodbye." And that was it, she wrapped her arms about her middle, walking past him briskly, careful not to brush against him as she stalked past, still blind, still unfortunately aware of every uncomfortable feeling that was racking both her chest and her head.

She hadn't a clue where she was going, and the destination wasn't her concern…so long as it was far away from him.

* * *

"Here you are little fledgling," As Yan Lin shoved the bowl underneath Irma's nose, it smelled a little less like sewage and a lot more like death (a week old and in the last stages of decomposition), and not for the first time Irma was grateful that the majority of her sense of smell had deserted her long before her sense of taste had. "_This_ will put some hair on your chest!"

"You should have asked her to make a potion to take the hair off of your upper lip instead." Cornelia scoffed.

"Oh what's the watter Corny, too washamed to wask on your own wehalf?"

"Listen you little nasal gnome!"

"Girls!" Susanna hollered over the ruckus. "Behave yourselves!"

Cornelia turned up her nose and went back to staring at her reflection, talking to Hay Lin as she fixed her long golden locks.

"I want a very large hoop skirt, for the Ball I mean…for the wedding I think that I should at least appear more conservative."

Hay Lin nodded, "Your legs are very long…I hope that I have enough cloth…"

Susanna shook her head, "Where's that wedding woman…is she still upstairs?"

"I left her in her room, she was talking to herself; I felt like an intruder." Hay Lin shook her head sadly.

"Where's Will?" Cornelia looked behind her, noticing the absence of red in the backdrop of her relection, "well, never mind, she's always running off somewhere."

"Wait…Will's gone!" Susanna dropped the samples of cloth she had been perusing. With her eyes as wide as saucers she looked at a sputtering Irma as she tried to digest what tasted like fish guts.

"Where is she?"

"I bon't snow!"

"Oh, forget this!" Leaping to her feet, Susanna stormed out of the parlor, Jeffery at her heels. "I am sick of talking to that child! If I have to lock her up until Saturday night, I swear to you that I…"

The front door swung open on its own accord, and Susanna jumped back suddenly. It was then that her heart tumble and fall.

* * *

"Where's my granddaughter." It was a statement, not a question and it quietly demanded an answer. Ironic, because there was nothing about this tall, stocky woman that seemed quiet; from the top of her flaming red head to the soles of her dark leather shoes, she was massive and threatening. But currently, the only thing Susanna Vandom-Hale-Lair could think to exclaim was: "Who in the bloody hell are you?"

"Who am I?" She roared although her face remained impassive. "I am your pocketbook embodied."

"Oh Jesus…" Susanna faltered, "Miss…Vandom…what a pleasant surprise."

"I'll bet that you're surprised," she withdrew a long curved pipe, already lit and placed the tip of the contraption between her long thin lips. "Fifty-seven silk dresses ordered last year, seventeen satin slippers…and for what?"

"Your majesty!" Jeffery interrupted, "May I say what a fine man your son…"

"Are you drunk?" She squinted at him, leaning forward, pressing against her polished mahogany cane only to scrunch up her face moments later in absolute disgust. "Is this your idea of good parenting Susan? You parade around drunks before my granddaughter? Which reminds me, _where_ is the child?"

Another statement, no more questions it seemed. "I…err…well; to be honest Miss Van…I don't know."

"You don't know!" She laughed awkwardly. "Now tell me why _I'm_ not surprised."

"Well I was actually just going out to look for her…"

"Do you know why I'm here Susan?"

No answer.

"Well, do you?"

Oh so she actually wanted an answer this time. "N-No Madame, I don't know."

"I didn't think that you did. You see when I told my Thomas before he passed that I would take care of you; I intended to keep that promise. And even after three husbands and two other children I've kept that promise. I am a reasonable woman after all."

"A-After all…" Susanna gave a small smile, something that only made the older woman's features darken considerably.

She pushed past the two figures at the door to stand in the middle of the Foyer, surveying the extravagant surroundings while inhaling the soot from her pipe. "I was visiting relatives in Fadden you see, and do you know what I heard? That you were planning a wedding for your daughter; now imagine my surprise when I thought that my grandchild, my Thomas' only child was about to be married, and her mother had neglected to inform me!"

"Oh, it must have been horrible…"

"Not as horrible as when I discovered that it _wasn't_ my Wilhelmina! That you had simply skipped over her and married off the daughter of that idiotic cad Hale!"

"Oh, well, he wasn't _that_ idiotic…"

"Have you thought; really have you thought about just what this will do to the girl's reputation? Already people are saying that the girl is a disgrace? That she isn't fit to married and that she is possessed by at least twelve demons and is therefore unable to conceive healthy children so that no man wants her!"

"Well, I swear Miss Vandom; there are just some people who will say anything…"

"When the time comes, she won't be able to find a suitable husband thanks to you! And I am here to remedy that situation."

"Err…how…"

"I'm doing what I should have done when I first realized that she was my blood. I'm taking her away to live with me in France. I'll make a name for her yet…"

"What?" Susanna exclaimed, her face contorting with indignation. "You can't just come into my house and tell me that you're taking away my flesh and blood!"

"Oh I can't?" The woman frowned again, her dark blue eyes glinting with malice. "Well then I suppose that _you'll_ just have to find some way to pay for this wedding by yourself…for those satin slippers and parasols and European furniture…what are these chandeliers real gold?"

The annoyance melted from off of her pretty face and Susanna smiled oddly. "All right, I see how it is. You make yourself at home Miss Vandom. I'll find Wilhelmina for you."

The giant of a woman nodded; two of her many chins wobbling in pure delight. "You do that."

Things were changing Susanna realized…she needed to think…fast.

* * *

The assembly inside of the Parlor hadn't been deaf to the outbursts in the Foyer; rather, they had heard and soaked in every word. So that when the tall, bulky woman drifted into their presence, Irma immediately flung herself upon her benefactor's mercy.

"What! No…no, don't take Will to France. She seldom talks and her sullenness is contagious." Irma sprang to her feet like a healthier lass, looking at the toad-like woman shrouded in the veil of tobacco smoke as though she were a vision sent from God himself. "But _I_ wam so wuch bore cordial…and I walready woe French." She cleared her throat and raised her arm as though she were reciting the finest Shakespearean sonnet. "Mercy boatcup monster! Er…bondjert, mouse armies ate ow river."

"Where did you learn this French?" Cornelia's voice shattered the strange silence that had followed Irma's exclamation. "You do realize that you just can't create a language and then decide that it's French…right?"

"No," Irma, naturally very offended exclaimed, "Are you mad? I wearnt this at bool. My _professeur_ said that he had never heard anything like it before in wis wife!"

"Irma you fool! That wasn't a compliment!"

"And you must be _Cornelia_." The woman surveyed her with poorly concealed resentment. "So what _is_ it that _you_ have in such excess that my granddaughter doesn't?"

"Well, manners for a start…" Cornelia had to be hushed by a look from her Mother at the doorway, so she clicked her tongue and smiled instead, "oh, nothing, merely a few inches."

* * *

**Author:** Fear not my pretties, Seniya lives to write again! Keeping hope (CalebxWill) alive, that's what I'm trying to do. Sadly the afore mentioned French was taken was my own experiences trying to read a passage in the eighth grade. For years I was called boat cup, but it's good that I can laugh at it now. It's supposed to say, merci beaucoup monsieur, bonjour mes amis et au revior. And that's like hello and goodbye, you know stuff that five year olds know now.

Yeah. So this chapter I tried to be a bit funnier. And I'm trying to show that Susan isn't as much of the heartless bitch that she first comes off as. I'm pretty sick right now; I always seem to have some sort of cold. Alas, but hey that's the only reason that I was able to write this.

But no worries, because our ship is far from sunk, I don't even care about W.I.T.C.H anymore but I'm far too stubborn to let the CxC fans think that we've given up…even though we have… and even if I have to come and write one sentence drabbles I'm not letting them have the last laugh. Well anyway, I'm still up in the air about the sex scene, it's already written, and my lord it's hott! But I'll only put it up here (I'll shove it on my livejournal otherwise) if you guys want it, so some input on that would be good with your reviews.

I mean you can't blame me…the sex literally writes itself. Speaking of which I wrote this whilst reading a four page Zutara smut feast…what! I don't know how good this chapter is, but if it sucks I'll make up for it later.

Thanks for reading!

* * *

**Dedicated:** NOT to Greg Weisman, you TRAITOR! And I'm taking back my first dedication while I'm at it! To storytellergirl (did I say you already, well whatever, you deserve it twice), lovestoread, dramoinelvr (I love them too), kinkystuff (I wish to steal your username) and Tella.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** It ain't mine. And I don't even want it to be anymore. It lost its appeal sometime around when Matt grew a tail and became an extra from the cast of Westside Story. 


	16. Chapter 16

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

Chapter Sixteen

* * *

Memories are like leaves, and so the human mind must be like a tree, large and magnificent…with the world running chaos about it. Like the seasons.

Memories are born in the spring, new experiences that we wish to forever cherish. They are particularly picturesque in the summer-time, when the skies are flawless and the clouds reclusive, and _then_ we want to brag about our knowledge, we want to show them off…by autumn however, they're old, they're boring and they're painful to hold onto…we allow the winds to take them away. By the first snowfall, we're barren, but still optimistic, for from our perch atop the driest branch we can already sense the cycle beginning once again.

And we're ready.

* * *

When she'd been younger, Will had possessed the incredible theory that if she kept walking, regardless of how long it took (remarkable how insignificant time seemed to a seven year old child) that she'd reach the horizon.

And what a sight it would be to behold. Because, based on an incredible knowledge of picture books and the Bible, she'd decided that heaven was at the horizon. And the sun was God's ethereal throne.

There were angels in the sunlight, one for each of us, and the shadows were demons, forever hiding from the horizon, because they didn't want to be reminded of what they'd lost.

One day, with her demon in tow, she'd set out for the horizon, been half-way there in fact, before her Mother had found her and dragged her back home. _Gypsies,_ she'd scolded, _gypsies and Spaniards who had children for supper, and they like red heads the most, because they're very hard to find. _

Well they most certainly wouldn't have found her. Will had sulked for an entire week at being locked in her room; the view of the Virginia plantations was particularly dreadful at that age, tobacco didn't really get interesting until you were fifteen and forced to like it.

She'd never try to walk to the horizon again, for in the next few months her mother would send her and her sister off to school, and Will had disliked old spinster Miss Knickerbocker too much to try to cross her.

Over time the urge to find heaven had vanished, in fact as the years had passed she'd forgotten her imagined location of the place. But now, standing in the middle of this road and watching as the dusty yellow path curved and winded until it finally disappeared. It occurred to her that perhaps a journey was the perfect way to spend these next few days.

She wondered now what would happen if she just kept on walking, she wouldn't encounter heaven that was for certain. She'd probably meet up with a brothel or a tavern and then the remainder of her story would be catalogued in the book of Judgment, read aloud to a million witnesses, and behind her, her mother would flinch as Irma laughed and Cornelia would disclaim her.

It didn't seem very interesting.

And it was doubtful that even if she could span the globe with her feet that she'd be able to destroy…or forget about this dirty feeling locked inside of her foolish heart. She might as well admit it now—you couldn't run from what was inside of you. It was a dirty trick; having all these feelings shoved inside of your being, you…you couldn't even pull them out when you were tired of them. Instead you had to drag them around, like heavy weights, victims to their masses.

* * *

She was stuck here…

There were tears in her eyes, tears that had been spun from the fingers of misery (who was a remarkable seamstress mind you), tears that had revolted at the thought of being locked inside of this tormented soul. Tears that had preferred suicide over such a fate, feelings made tangible that had leapt to their demise.

How dare he tell her those things? How dare he make her feel this way about him and then not even care? How could she be so foolish that she'd actually dared to believe that he'd even think about it?

Will hated that she was crying. She hated the fact that she didn't care that she was a lovesick fool who had fallen to the ground in anguish and had started bawling, clutching fistfuls of dirt as though they held anesthetic…

Anyone could see her…in fact, if Caleb himself suddenly realized that he'd…misplaced his…riding crop or something and decided to make an about face, he'd see her stupid figure curled up…he'd probably laugh with Cornelia in satisfaction about it in fact, they'd probably tell their freakishly attractive children about it as well. Crazy auntie Wilhelmina, oh yes the one that lives alone with the cats, it was so hilarious, crying like a toddler…that worked to sober her up.

God help her but she did have some pride left, it was fading, rendered half useless already because of the cracks that his presence had inflicted on it's fragile glass surface, but it was still hers to cherish and keep, she'd be damned if she allowed him to break that too.

* * *

There was dirt smeared all over her nose and cheeks by the time she fixed herself. She'd paced aimlessly around for nearly half an hour, until a sudden heaviness in her head had made her search for reassurance in the tiny pond near Mister Potter's house…where they'd first met, oh yes she recalled, he'd been standing right here…handsome, he'd been so very handsome, although she would have admitted it then…

Hell, she wouldn't admit it now! His nose was too straight, his face was too severe, she…she liked chubby cheeks and double chins! Clefts! Who needed them…?

'_Maybe Cornelia did.'_ Will snorted, well then she and her clefty chinned children could go straight to hell. _Her _children would have chubby cheeks, she decided…well, if she ever got a husband…fruitless…spinster, oh yes, it was all coming back to her now.

She washed the stupid frown off of her face and walked towards the house, feeling utterly disgruntled as she'd passed the place when she recalled that he'd pulled her towards him in the middle of the rain, he'd kissed her then…

His lips had been like rough velvet…

And look at where it's gotten you! She snapped, turning around and walking towards the direction of the Potter's estate. Her throat burned from more tears, and just general pain…probably from annoyance.

He'd been coming from this direction…she wondered what he'd been doing, seeing the Potters perhaps…maybe he'd gone to see Joseph, _get the harpy off of his hands_. As if! That cad! Given a few more minutes she'd have shown him harpy! If only her mind hadn't been so clouded then, she'd have broken it off with him…good riddance too.

It was good that he was gone; she didn't have to keep telling herself that. He was her sister's fiancé, not hers, most definitely not hers. And besides she was only upset because he'd beaten her to the chase…not because she was so selfish that she'd really hoped that he'd actually…wanted her.

She had a right to be upset, after all her pride and all around her self esteem had been damaged severely. They'd all fallen, like a rainbow in the sunrise, crumbling around her…

She spotted a tree; a massive oak it looked like…and was then vaguely reminded of a girl who had once enjoyed climbing trees, that girl had had her priorities in order.

* * *

She clamored up the tree and seated herself, relatively comfortably in one of the larger branches. The breeze up here was cool and refreshing, in fact, if only she could clear her head and relax…her mind shook terribly, she closed her eyes and leaned back, secretly wishing for the embrace of another but finding nothing but rough bark to hold her. The tears threatened again, she let them fall…at least up here no one would see.

She'd cry now…better here than at the wedding, which her mother would doubtlessly insist that she attend. Dress her up in pink or lavender or some other stupid color.

* * *

The horizon stared back at her wordlessly. From up here…it looked…approachable…attainable, yes that was better. As though she could just reach forward and…touch…

The ground was shaking…horses…hundreds of them…thousands maybe…at the head of the group would be a very fearsome black stallion, leading on his brethren towards the apocalypse…had she said her prayers this morning, oh no—too distracted…

God shook his head in disapproval, his large, oh so straight nose was pointed upwards, from the inside of his beard she could just make out a dent in his chin. The gavel lowered, and struck, she fell…

Down, down, down. Hell was cooler than she'd been led to believe…suspiciously a lot harder as well, she closed her eyes, the throbbing worsened…but at least now, the tears had stopped.

* * *

Maybe nobility was all a matter of perceptive...maybe it was all relative...in King Arthur's court, he was certain that the old man must have been remarkably vigilant when choosing his knights …a knight should be noble, heroic and loyal…but these were traits that all men possessed...mostly not in excess, but they were present…well, two out of three wasn't so terrible…it was women, as old King Arthur would soon discover (around the time that he saw Guinevere and old Lancelot in a rather compromising position). It was women who made men disloyal, those blasted females, with their armory of smiles and battleships loaded with curvaceous bosoms and rounded hips, those charms made men into cowards...

Such treachery ran in his own veins, and so he'd borne witness to it for all of his life. His father had been a good man; he'd always done what had been expected, perhaps that was what had foiled him, those expectations were far too high for a man like him, he'd gotten married.

His mother had been a proud woman, she had always done what had been expected of her; she had borne her husband an heir, a son. Everything had been perfect or at least gone well, until the expectations ran out.

It had started slowly, but there had never been a time when he'd never known his parents not to quarrel, there had never been a single moment when he could recall his father never being late; he'd never asked about it…it seemed so natural to him then.

And so, when his father critiqued and drilled him, he'd understood. When afterwards his mother cried and doted upon his shaken form, he's never bothered to ask, this was the normalcy he'd known.

His idea of normal was shattered at twelve, when his mother had died…consumption or something like it…

He'd left home sometime soon after, when his father had decided what expectations should be foisted upon him so that he could most effectively follow in his footsteps; when there was no one left to dote upon him, to whisper words of love and comfort to him after the storm had passed. He'd run away…

He stopped mid step as the front doors swung forward.

"It is impossible to me how you can loose a child!"

"I beg your pardon Miss, but Wilhelmina…isn't just a child…she's just like a hoard of rampaging bulls…she's probably…Mister Olsen!" Susanna spun to face him, her face was flushed and her eyes betrayed the worry that she was trying to conceal in her stiff frame.

From behind her Caleb heard a shriek, which finally disrupted the final memories of his youth…it was foolish to dwell upon the past in any case, he began to draw closer to her, only to be halted by her frantically waving her arms. "You can't come inside…I'm sorry, I know how that sounds, but Cornelia is trying on her wedding gown and it's dreadfully bad luck to see the bride before…"

"Enough of this nonsense!" A more domineering voice, and a person revealed herself—wait, it was a woman—right? "Where is my granddaughter? So help me God if you're hiding her there won't be a wedding!"

"Right…err…Mr. Olsen, this is Ms. Vandom, she's Will's grand…"

"What does that have to do with anything? Outside woman!"

He didn't see the shove, but he watched, in half-shock as the raven haired lady staggered forward, and then smiled sheepishly. "We'll…check around the back first shall we…yes…"

"And for God's sake what kind of a name is Will? You've saddled that child with such a ridiculous…"

He watched as the pair disappeared around the corner of the house. His head throbbing slowly at this new turn of events, there wasn't so much shock now, as it was…resignation?

Yes, definitely resignation, he figured as Jeffery, clothed in a furry white suit darted outside to find his mistress.

* * *

Caleb hadn't intended to go into the main house (really, in his mind it wasn't somewhere you went if you could help it), well; he knew that he'd have to go eventually, mainly to tell Taranee that he'd remembered to feed her blessed horse. But currently…he'd wanted to go to bed, his entire body was tired, drained really…and the only thing he'd really done for the day was to direct a very difficult conversation.

Thank God that was over…now; the only thing he'd have to deal with concerning her was the memory of her perfume, which as of today had officially locked itself onto his clothes…that and maybe seeing her a few times…he really had no intention of speaking to her again.

The sound of what had to be his soon-to-be wife's hysteric screeches made the prospect of a quiet afternoon; alone in the cottage seem all the more appealing.

"He's seen me in my dress! Irma get out of the way!"

A door slammed shutting out the sound of giggles, followed by a hard smack.

* * *

Maybe he should simply visit Taranee now that she was missing…well, _he _knew that she was probably half-way to Jamestown by now, but that wasn't a bit of information that he felt the need to share with her mother currently.

She'd be fine; he told the voices of worry that upset his plan of apathy. She's far too stubborn to let anything happen to her…he turned to look at the guard of trees who dutifully surrounded the dusty, sprawling road…anything could be hiding in those trees…_anyone_.

The memory of the story of a young girl with her intestines sliced out crossed his mind…

He needed to stop this, he wasn't here to play governess to a little girl, he had a job, a duty, and he knew what was expected of him. Those expectations, unlike those of his father, were very important, and again, unlike his father, he intended to keep his.

All wants needs and desires aside.

He knew what was right. And without a second thought, he turned and entered the darkness of the main house.

* * *

He collided with Taranee upon the wide, curving staircase…she was thundering downstairs, dressed in a very pink…very frilly set of bedclothes.

"What are you…"

She stomped on his foot to silence him. "They're gone right?" Her large brown eyes darted around like a lunatic's.

He managed to push her away, "who are you talking about…"

"That blasted woman!"

There was a realization that struck him, but the blow was softened by still more confusion. "Why? What are you planning?"

"I've finally figured out what to do about questioning the mother…and you can thank that…chubby girl…whatever her name is for helping me."

She pushed her way aside him, and then hastily rushed to the back of the house. He followed her.

"Taranee…"

"Don't say my name you twit! No one is supposed to know that I know you know who I am!"

"Look, there's no one here!"

She stilled, and then executed a hasty about face that dislodged several feathers from her clothes and hair. "I'm going to poison the bitch." She spoke quite calmly; he assumed that it had to do with her blatant insanity.

Really, he could think of only three people who deserved to be put of their misery in such a manner—and truly, Susanna wasn't one of them. If anything…poisoning her would put everyone else out of theirs. Taranee especially…

"And how, pray tell will you question her when she's dead?"

"What, no lecture?" She smirked, "I'm not so foolish…it won't be enough to _kill_ her." She turned around to confront the darkness, wordless asking it to surrender any spies. "I just need to loosen her up a bit…just to get enough answers…"

"Taranee…" Regrettably, the only argument that he could imagine was that if this plan failed…Will…wouldn't be especially happy…he forced his mouth shut.

"Look, the plan is flawless…" She reached for a chain that hung about her neck, "I've managed to pilfer her medicine vial, and she sucks this thing down like water. I'll just put some of my concoction in it, and Friday night, when she miraculously finds it…she'll be out like a candle in a hurricane."

She laughed softly, he didn't join in.

"What are you so sullen about, we'll be gone in two days, and you'll never have to see that crazy woman again."

"Right," there it was, an actual conclusion, a finale; the climax…the end. He'd never actually dared to place a time frame on it before, now, coming from someone else's mouth…it seemed, so irreverent…so sudden.

"What did you come in here for?" Taranee, for the sake of preserving her own momentary joy, ignored his lack of enthusiasm at the prospect of leaving.

"Oh—I fed your horse." He admitted, but the weight of his thoughts wouldn't allow him to rise above this surface of deliberation, he kept falling back in.

"Good, good…" Taranee placed a finger to her chin in a quick moment of reflection before continuing, "you have to be careful that no one sees Zeus, there are only three others like him on this entire continent, he's really too easy to find…"

"No one will see him Taranee."

"Well get going! Go chat up with your blushing bride to be—and make it convincing this time."

She slipped away into the darkness, and heavily, he turned around and walked towards the foyer.

* * *

"This house is run like an institution I say George!" Sally Weisman turned to her husband of fifty years, he was deaf as she was blind…hence the reason why the marriage had been successful (since they'd both grown tired of either looking at or listening to the other a good thirty years ago). "Here I am, my grandchildren raining from the sky like judgment, for you know it is that that I suspected! Judgment! Damnation! But no, it was only Wilhelmina. Well may you praise the glories of the Catholic Jesus who died for our sins?"

"My papers you old hag! When have you hidden them!" Old George hissed at his wife who muttered something useless to him in response, he frowned deeply and searched his pockets again, he'd never let her take his will and testament from him—she'd need to pry it from his cold, dead hands!

"I arrive upon these premises to find how many stable boys Patrick?"

"Twelve, my lady." The coachman replied, shifting his weight so that the feeble figure that he carried in his own frail arms was better supported.

"Twelve stable boys, did you hear that George, what a frivolous child you have made! Twelve stable boys none older than sixteen, none to carry my half dead grandbaby into the house; I suspect that we shall all have to suffer and starve outside."

"Cheese!" George decided, staring at the haggard face of his wife as though he could make it disappear, "I must have cheese."

"What is he on about Patrick? The doctors have told him…Patrick what was that sound have you dropped my grandchild…the only remaining piece of blood that I have? Oh dear God in heaven let it not be so!" She moved her cane about wildly, tapping both George, herself and Patrick on the shins before deciding that it wasn't the second coming.

"You stable boy," she turned to the horse that was still attached to their, now seriously damaged carriage. "Open the main entrance; I am here to visit my daughter."

"Y-Yes mam…" A very weary looking boy of…fourteen replied, he rushed up the steps, Patrick following as quickly as he could, the unconscious Will cradled in his trembling arms.

There was a great deal of noise that followed afterwards, Sally collided with the door, George, imaging his war veteran days, brandished his whiskey—err, pistol at her, snatching off her extravagant wig in attack. "Take that you French bastards!"

"What's wrong with her?"

"Who are you?" Patrick questioned, heaving a great breath and holding the girl closer to him.

"What kind of question is that? Finally! Another Englishman, look George…" the bald woman staggered inside, swinging her cane about her in a wide, sweeping semi-circle, "…Susan finally took our advice and hired some of her own kind! Enough of these damned Yankees treading with their ungrateful feet over this Land that our blessed Queen has granted them!"

"What happened to her?" Caleb repeated, watching, with mounting panic as Will continued to remain immobile.

"She fell…from a tree, as far as I know…she landed atop of our carriage just as it was passing…made a hole through the top and everything…'best as I can tell she's got a bit of a fever. I don't know why she was out climbing trees—"

"Yes, yes, the fever of the Lord! Praise to Catholic Jesus and he only shall I serve!"

"Sally!" George bellowed, shaking the hand that held her hairpiece wildly, "Your hair, witch! It's devouring my flesh! After my papers are you…you'll never find them bastards!"

"Quickly lad!" Sally faced the door, "find my daughter, the Countess Susan Vandom Lair Hale and tell her that her mother and father have arrived and are in the finest of health, then you may tell her that we found her first born and have successfully saved her from a fate of being trampled."

Caleb took Will's inanimate form from the man's tired arms and moved up the stairs towards her bedroom, barely noticing her weight in his hands.

At first the newly arrived party attempted to follow, but Sally could only make it past the first three steps before toppling backwards onto the antique rug, and George, still vigilant of his papers and documents hadn't bothered to ascend the stairway.

"Cheese God be damned! I'll shoot the milk out of you if needs be—still trying to do me in, but you'll never get my inheritance!"

* * *

She was swimming, wonderfully afloat in this warm black sea. She felt so wonderfully light here, her hair, saturated and dripping fell before her eyes, clouding her vision, and the thick, black water had clogged her ears—she was alone, with only feelings to guide her, and she was swimming.

* * *

The first blade that sliced through her head caused her more pain than she cared to have repeated. The second was no better; she groaned and clutched her fists to her eyes, trying to pull the light out of her eyes.

She felt…someone's hands on her face, trying, forcefully trying to peel her fists away. "Stop." She whispered groggily, frowning at the sudden pain that all of these actions caused to seize her entire body.

"What is wrong with you?"

_Him._

Her heart fluttered, her hands dropped limply to her side, and she bore all of the pain that the sunlight caused her just so that she could ensure that it was really him, seated beside her—this somehow didn't seem right. Where was her horizon? Why couldn't she feel it in her fingers?

"Did you _throw yourself_ out of that tree?"

She could find the strength to answer him, her body ailed her far too much, and her skin still felt…disquieted at the places that he had touched. Her silence didn't seem to perturb him too much; it was all well and good in his mind that he carry on this conversation on his own.

"It has become obvious to me that you are incapable of taking care of yourself. What, did you think that it would be a game for you?"

"What are you talking about—"

"What am I…" He ran a hand through his dark brown hair…such pretty hair, she frowned, she shouldn't be thinking that, she remembered.

"What, are you going to _deny_ that you jumped out of a tree?"

Oh yes the tree, she remembered it now. "I have no recollection of…" she cleared her throat; it scratched and stung as she spoke.

"Oh, you don't?"

"I must have leaned too far over…and fell…" she closed her eyes, wishing for her dark sea to return to her. She didn't want to talk to him…whoever he was he made her stomach feel nauseous.

"Right. So what was the plan here? We decide to finish this…thing and you try to kill yourself?"

Suddenly filled with the urge to defend herself, Will struggled to a sitting position, "You…I didn't, are you so vain that you believe that every one of my actions revolves around you?"

"Then what was it?"

She flinched as her stomach churned, he was so near to him, she could feel his breath on her face…she backed away. "I was watching the birds." She lied.

"Bird watching?" the features on his face paused before rearranging themselves into a mask of disbelief.

"Yes, it's a hobby of mine. You see if you knew anything about me then you'd know how much I like birds…I like vultures the best."

"Vultures?"

"Yes and eagles, I thought that I'd found a nest…"

"You really did hit your head didn't you?" He reached behind her to caress the back of her head—she pulled away, the nausea now becoming too much for her to bear.

"It doesn't matter." It was all coming back now; even the receding waters of her precious black lake couldn't save her from those memories, she didn't want him to talk to her. The bitterness that was boiling in her belly rose to coat her words, "what do you care anyway? Don't you have a _wife_ to be watching over?"

She tried to turn away, but there was too much pain, so she took solace in crossing her arms about her chest and squeezing her eyes shut.

"I-I…" he faltered at that, the painful grip of fear still hadn't released its hold on his heart. He watched as she ignored him, each second making it clearer to him…he couldn't go on with out her.

He hated being this dependant—and it seemed absolutely pathetic to rely so much on someone who was so helpless, but he was…and he did. He wasn't the same man as he'd been before—this man couldn't do the noble thing, not the loyal…because this man didn't know what it was.

He was no exception to the flaws of his kind, he too was completely susceptible to the wiles of this woman…he needed her to see in him with something other than arrogance, it was as though his very life depended on that. He could scarcely take breath as he looked at her, he wanted little more than to take her into his arms…

…and make her his.

It was then that he realized just what had happened to him.

And inside it was blooming, like a rose…like a flower in the spring, rising from inside of his cracked heart and blossoming…a feeling so wild and exquisite. One that he hid as best as he could, covering it up with layers of muddy indifference.

"Just…you can't be this selfish. There are other people who care about your well being, if you can't keep yourself safe for you…then do it for their sakes."

She heard him as he rose and walked to the door, there was no comfort to be found in the fact that he was leaving; his retreating presence only made her feel worse…sicker…sadder; and before she could stop herself her scratchy throat had opened and words had found themselves into the open. "Who cares? Who?" she managed, her voice made unrecognizable by both fright and sickness.

"You have a family…don't you?" He looked at her strangely, and for the first time she could hear the truth in a maze of words; it was hiding, buried deep within his eyes. He looked away, she swallowed.

* * *

They were the angels of the night, goddesses, each of them in their own right, and dreamers—dancers, all of them. They were too tiny to be seen, too fragile to be held, but when they danced, oh yes, when they moved, they could light up the entire world. Mother moon would smile, for she's proud; like all mothers are of their good children.

But she's protective as well. And so as soon as each night is over; before the raging sun can damage her precious daughters, she pulls them close and they all hide, practicing their foot work.

* * *

It was early into the evening before Susanna had decided to conclude the search for her daughter. With the massive, threatening (and many other adjectives long) Ms. Vandom trailing unhappily behind her, she could only smile reassuringly and state that Will…err—Wilhelmina must be inside by now.

The woman had grunted something indiscernible before pushing past her into the main house. Outside, finally alone, Susanna pressed her back to the heavy mahogany door and released a long sigh, sorely, sorely missing her misplaced vial. Maybe she could pay double for that tonic…

"Susanna!"

Her peace and solitude interrupted, Susanna dragged her heavy feet inside, "yes, what is it now?"

"Wother! Bill bell bout ob bat wee!"

"Will what?" She screeched, immediately following the trail of people that led, like a parade of ants, up to her oldest daughter's bedroom.

"Is this her!" Ms. Vandom had already arrived, and presently she took up the majority of the space by her granddaughter's bedside. She took the opportunity to point out as many flaws as she could see. "What is wrong with her hair? And why is she so small…those hips are too narrow, she isn't good for bearing sons. I can see that I got here just in time, I'll have to fatten her up first, that's obvious…heh; the ton would have a field day with this in London—"

"Grandma?" Will seemed to have been pulled for her temporary haze, "what are you doing here?"

"I'm taking you away with me," the woman spoke sharply, briskly. "We'll leave as soon as possible."

"By bart boo waking ber?" Irma pined, standing on her very tiptoes just to see over the heads of servants and family alike.

"Irma be quiet!" Her mother shushed her, "where's Cornelia?"

"Bownsteers," she sniffed, "she bays that Waleb baw ber bin her bedding breast."

"Oh for heaven's sake…" Susanna sighed. "Go get Yanlin."

"Bine." Irma fussily stalked away.

"Where are you taking me?" Will stared, mouth agape at the massive redheaded Amazon that stood next to her.

"Paris. We'll have to go to London first, to get the estates in order, but after that…"

"God, be the Glory great things he hath done!" Sally interrupted, only to gain a scathing look from the would-be speaker. "Is that my baby?"

"Mother? D-Daddy…" for the first time Susanna took in the appearance of her parents, from her bald mother to her swaggering father. "W-what are you two doing here?"

"We came for the wedding of course!" Sally chuckled good naturedly. "We were touring the country when we met up with some of your father's cousins…they told us all about it. And I just knew you'd want for us to be here."

Her eyes darted to her father. "Where's my cheese?"

"Oh, forgive him Susan dear…he thinks that he needs to have cheese twice a day or else he shall perish."

"Where is it, I said…are all of you heathens out to do me in?"

"What is this?" Ms. Vandom roared so loudly that even George quieted, "all of you out, out…I want some privacy with my granddaughter!"

Without so much as a whisper of question, the congregation departed, Susanna attempting to follow discreetly in their massive shadow.

"Not you woman…you stay _here_ with _me_."

Susanna gulped, but nodded obediently, folding her arms atop of her corset before smiling sweetly at Will.

"Why do I have to go?" Will coughed suddenly.

"Are you ill my child?" The woman frowned at Susanna as though she had poured the disease into her granddaughter's throat out of nothing but pure spite.

"She's always sick…" Susanna put in.

"No doubt due to the fact that she isn't eating right!" She dropped a heavy hand onto the top of Will's rumpled red hair. "Don't worry my girl; I'll take care of you just as your father was taken care of."

Will turned to face her Mother, who was still smiling with that eerie look upon her perfect, white face. "Now, Will, remember what I told you—it's time to be mature now, I know what's best. As does your grandmother."

Yanlin entered the room before Will could piece together her mother's puzzle. "Ah! It's just as I thought. Didn't I tell your sister to keep away from you?"

"Why? Did you have a vision about it?" Susanna looked at the Asian expectedly.

"No. Ah! it's simply common sense. Irma's catching…she caught." She shook her head. "But maybe we can stop it! Where is that book I gave you all those years ago…the one with the _recipes_?" She inclined her head meaningfully.

"Book?" Realization struck, her stomach fell. "I-I…actually lost it…but shouldn't you know how to get rid of a little cough?"

"You lost the book? How could you loose it? Ah! This generation…where did you last have it?"

"I-I…never used it that must to be honest…it was always in the library."

"How lovely for you both!" Ms. Vandom snapped in annoyance. "So do you mean to tell me that there are no doctors here and you are placing the health of my grandchild into the hands of…a bush woman?"

"_Bush woman_! Ah!" Yanlin's face reddened considerably and her back straightened all at once. "Oh, I will tell you woman, it is best not to plan ahead where your family is concerned…things have a way of _running away_ from you."

"How very cryptic…" Ms. Vandom, frowned deeply and sent a look that would have made any man fall to his knees to beg for mercy—much less a woman. Yanlin bit her lip. "I cannot recall at this moment, the exact ingredients…but I'll boil some tea for _Will_."

"I don't like this one bit Susanna!" the larger woman commented, but followed the Asian out of the room. "I must see what you're putting in that tea pot!"

Once alone, Will turned to her mother, begging with her eyes for an explanation, for some sort of reassurance. "Get some rest Will, I can't have you sick for the wedding. I'd hate for Cornelia to catch it."

And she too left.

* * *

**Author: **Sweet Sixteen. This is NOT on hiatus; I'm just having trouble updating/finding new shit to write. You know how I am, about the sun and moon and flowers and personifying everything, well it's getting harder to do…maybe I need a new CD.

I have a fever…whoo, I don't recall writing much of this in a proper state, please bear with me. Twenty five is the new count for chapters.

Review!

**Dedicated:** To Zadien, I love you baby! Are the rest of you reading her amazing stor, if not you should be! And what about storytellergirl's latest 'Oh the possibilities', that needs some attention too.

* * *


	17. Chapter 17

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

Chapter Seventeen

* * *

Frustration nipped nastily at his breeches as Phobos dismounted his steed. The black beast shook its massive head in annoyance and as far as he could tell insurgence. Logically, he knew that the horse couldn't be blamed; they had been going at a ridiculous speed for a ridiculously long period of time—even _his_ back ached, even _his_ knees where stiff from the effort of clinging onto the brute's back as they had sped through dark back roads and dark, swampy terrain.

Desperation, and few men knew this, was the strongest form of adrenaline.

And he wasn't too proud to admit that with every passing day he was growing steadily more desperate.

He needed that girl. She was the final brush stroke on his masterpiece, so much depended on his success; irritation sharpened its fangs and bit deeper. There was no time for rest stops…

Cedric pulled a halt somewhere beside him, his own grey mare bristling with the same aggravation that they all shared.

"What now sir?" The smaller man inquired, although he should very well know the answer by now.

Phobos took a moment to dust off his clothing, no small feat as the steady heat over the past few days coupled with him riding at breakneck speeds, had caused his once impeccably black suit to change into a dowdy shade of grey. He frowned deeply, "water the horses, and get them something to eat. I want to be out of this god forsaken town by nightfall." Or before someone recognized him, whichever one came first.

"Be careful with Aries," he mentioned, lowering the brim of his hat so that all that could be seen of his face was darkness, "there are only three of them on this side of the world. He's one of the fastest damn things on four legs…don't let anything happen to him."

* * *

Jamestown, by all means hadn't lived up to the founding fathers majestic dreams—that was for certain. The place was overrun with rowdy sailors and thieves, the overwhelming scent of dead fish clung to anyone unfortunate enough to pass through, and a night spent in Jamestown alone, was potentially a morning spent in the cemetery…as a new resident. But these facts never seemed to deter any tourists, for day after day the muddy streets crawled with men and women, moving like maggots all in search of the same meal: money.

Phobos weaved his way through the city, brushing past all of afore mentioned those maggots, wishing that he could trample them with his shoes. Women, with wide, toothy grins and painted faces leered suggestively at him, and men with dark, greasy skin glared suggestively at his pockets.

He managed to ignore both sexes long enough to make it into a shop—the dressmaker's. It could be described as a relatively upstanding place, well as upstanding as you got in a place such as Jamestown, where if the whores and the poufs dared not to venture inside then it seemed good enough for the Queen herself. It was owned by a Lady St. Clair, who was of _dubious_ origins. Her husband, Jack, also of _dubious _origins had died a few years prior, leaving this…lady to fend for herself.

She was a ruthless business woman, with an eye for fashion and an ear for gossip, traits which, despite the consequences of coming to or being seen in Jamestown, made her small little shop very popular among the upper circles.

Even as Phobos entered into the cozy, albeit cramped space, he found that he wasn't alone, two other ladies were crowded about the counter, parasols folded, bonnets tied and made stiff by copious amounts of starch—they were discussing something of obvious importance (to them at least) and even Lady St. Clair didn't stir when he entered.

"Of course I've heard of the wedding," she said snappishly, obviously in reply to one of her customer's earlier comments, "it's all anyone can talk about. In this day and age…an arranged marriage, as though the girl is some breed of cattle."

"And the poor dear, she's simply gorgeous! To think how this will ruin the girl's reputation…later in life I mean. People don't forget things like these." A mousy haired woman put in.

Unless of course something more delectable came along, such were the ways of the gossips, bored middle aged women who had nothing better on their minds than other people's problems. He began to turn away, if only to occupy himself with the range of fabrics stocked haphazardly on the many shelves off to the side of the building, that was until a piece of their idle gossip tempted his mind.

"She invited my daughter, Sarah to the wedding, since she and Cornelia…and that other one…the oldest girl…went to finishing school together, they were really rather close…I feel terrible about it, really I do, it's just that I can't imagine letting my girl go to that…_spectacle_! And the way she keeps moving it up…"

"I don't blame you Caroline." The Lady put in, barely able to conceal her excitement at this new piece of information (one that would have made the rounds by the end of the day), "blood will tell, I always say. Cornelia is the only gem in that family, and look how just being near them has ruined her already."

"I've never gotten over the fact that the youngest…" Caroline faltered, moving her hands frantically around in an effort to describe copulation, "with the servant!"

"Oh never mind that!" Barked the loud mouthed Dame DuWitt, her mousy hair had nothing to do with her own boisterous disposition. "Does anyone know where this boy is from? I've heard of the Olsens…they're from up north…"

"North?" Hissed the business woman, "Those blasted Yankees with their liberal views, want to give any Tom, Dick and Harry the right to do anything on this land!"

"Let's not get into politics Georgina," Caroline chirped, her dark hair and full lips betraying her own _dubious _heritage. "Where did you say he came from?"

"I'm not certain, that's just the thing, by all means I've heard of the family…I know that they had a son in England. From what I heard to boy was a musician."

A collective snort, and then one feeble voice of Caroline, "but I've heard that he's a Lawyer."

"Bloody hell…" Lady St. Clair breathed, "That woman makes my blood boil—orders all of her dresses from _Europe_, as though mine aren't good enough!"

"She's a strange breed that woman. But it isn't as though it's hard to be a lawyer…" Six eyes turned at once, a roll of fabric had fallen to floor behind him, Phobos flinched at the noise.

The Lady wasted no time in straightening her back and offering her new prospective buyer and wide, friendly smile, in this light he dared say that she differed very little from those other, more wanton women outside. "May I help you sir?"

She'd helped him more already than she'd ever know. A fiancé from the north, a wedding that kept being pushed up, few people knew this; but Susanna was a very intelligent woman. But if she felt that he would be deterred so easily, then she'd be even more surprised than the others.

He needed to hurry. Now he was certain that he didn't have any time for rest stops.

He watched with disinterested eyes as the Lady's companions curtsied, he ignored them both. "I'd be interested in a suit, two actually…and perhaps…a gown, for a young girl. All ready made."

* * *

Will would never find out whether or not Yanlin's "magical", "mystical" potions worked, for her grandmother, having tracked the older woman to the kitchen, having seen exactly what made these potions "magical" and "mystical" had decided that they were not fit to be ingested by "civilized humans".

Yanlin, obviously, had taken it as a great insult to her character and had subsequently locked herself in Irma's bedroom, and had demanded that Haylin follow suit. As a direct result all work had ceased on all wedding apparel and the hole that devoured an entire side of the house.

Susanna was beside herself by noon the next day. She had spent the entire morning bribing the old woman to come out of the room, but no number of chocolates or "finely bred steeds" would convince her otherwise, in fact Yanlin had decided (through letter correspondence) that the only way she'd be coming out was if the massive Ms. Vandom herself, vacated the premises.

Which was, in Susanna's mind, utterly impossible.

Irma had spent the night in Will's bed, and therefore Will had spent the night half-way on the floor, the victim of Irma's nighttime superhuman strength. "I had a wonderful night's rest." She had chirped to the dour looking girl earlier this morning, "really Will you aren't dying why do you always have to look so _morose_?"

Will had contemplated killing her. In fact, had it not been for the pain in her temples and the uselessness of her nostrils Will decided that she would have tossed Irma over the banister…along with Cornelia.

_Noisy brat._

"Mother," The blonde stood, arms crossed, hair tied together in a single mass of perfect, golden rings, above their mother, impatiently tapping her foot. "I refuse to be married in that dress. It is bad luck…how can you be so _insensitive_?"

"Insensitive!" Susanna barked, and the entire house stood still. The bedroom door that she was huddled against cracked open and Haylin poked out a raven topped head, Irma paused from spooning eggs into her mouth to dart up the stairs for a closer look, Will flinched at the excessive noise but stayed in the Dining room, there was no reason to kill herself—but everywhere else, every servant, stable boy and chimney sweep stopped whatever they were doing and rushed closer for this unprecedented event.

"Listen to me you vain, selfish little puppet! I have been breaking my back for _days_…do you understand? _Days_ for _you _and this blasted wedding! And if you think that I'll allow you to do anything to ruin it…" she paused to take a gasp of air, "…I'll wring your neck! You'll be married in a goddamned sack if that's what it takes! I don't care if you look like a cow! You'll do as I say!" She sank back into her post by the door, Jeffery immediately falling to her side, offering her his favorite brand of condolence: whiskey.

Cornelia, now pink and very shaken, well aware of each and every eye on her stiff neck and upturned nose, walked with as much pride as she could muster back to her bedroom, and then shut the door to keep those same eyes out.

"Cornelia had to moooo-ve along very quickly!" Irma chortled, enticing a groan from the spectators. "Don't you see it's funny because she'll look like a cow…"

"You were better off with the cold in ya head Miss," Emily muttered as the crowd filed downstairs.

"Well, I thought that it was very funny…"

* * *

He wasn't entirely certain when he'd been demoted from partner to farm boy, but it most certainly had been a swift descent. He watched as the graceful Zeus chewed at the hay that he'd brought for it, occasionally voicing its gratitude with a _neigh_.

They'd be gone soon, all of them, he'd seen the look of determination, though mingled with madness in Taranee's eyes; he doubted she could last more than another day here. Soon, he could put this entire ordeal behind him; soon he'd be distracted by the search for Phobos—by the hedonism of his day to day life. Although, somehow it didn't work to appeal to him as much as he hoped, rather his main distraction currently lay with wondering exactly what Will would do once she discovered the truth.

It was rule number one; don't ever let the job become personal. But he'd pushed the line so far that he doubted that a single broken rule was the sole cause for his bewilderment. There were knots in his chest, which was the best that he could explain it. Horrible thoughts and ideas that called to be caressed, yet he kept away, not terrified—simply hesitant.

He knew what they were; these were the thoughts that drove men to liquor, to the poor house, to the grave. These were the thoughts that had been initiated by women, women who never shred these thoughts, but who knew impeccably well exactly how to manipulate them.

He stayed away. Wishing that he could purge this weakness from his system, but even that evoked a certain protectiveness that he would have denied if asked about it.

His entire life would be ruined if he let these things irk him. What would he do? Pull her from her life to drag her around with him…or even worse, take her back home? And God, he was thinking so far ahead, who said she'd even want him after she knew?

He shook his head, effectively stirring up the emotions inside of his chest. Why did she do this to him? She was just a girl, a little girl who wasn't half as strong or rude or convincing as she thought. A little girl who when she laughed, could make his entire soul light up—a woman that he wanted, more than he could comprehend. He wanted to taste her lips, he wanted to hold her against him, to listen to the music of her gasps and sighs, and find haven…heaven inside of her.

He wanted her. He wanted to be her first, her last…her everything. It was too difficult to think about a life without her, even though he'd only known her for…what a matter of days? He realized now that it was as though she'd been there all along; so familiar; so comforting. He just hadn't seen it before now. Hadn't wanted to…

He was prying, God damn it, he was looking into these things, into this Pandora's Box, he couldn't stop himself…

Each thought of her evoked warmth in him, something that left him breathless, desperate for more. More than kisses and heated touches, more than dreams and fantasies, he wanted…her to want him back.

He wanted her to love him—because he quite foolishly and against all better judgment had fallen, unceremoniously in love with her.

The truth was necessary.

There were no more questions, only answers now—he'd tell her. He'd risk every chance of ever finding Phobos if it meant that he could be with her—but what if she refused? What would happen to his plan then?

Beside him Zeus nudged closer for a touch, and he placed his hand atop of the horse's nose to placate it.

Would anything survive the truth?

* * *

"So Wilhelmina, do you have any plans for the future?" Irma had been chased away, gone to watch as her Mother begged, cried and pleaded for any sort of assistance, now in a low, slurred voice because she had accepted the comfort that Jeffery had offered.

The day was fading fast, some of the last remaining streaks of sunshine had become trapped on the floor, and her grandmother had chosen now to come for Tea, Tea that was more of an interrogation than a social matter.

Will sniffled slightly; raising a handkerchief that Irma had given her to her nose. "What do you mean?"

"For marriage I mean, haven't you ever considered it?" She took a long sip of her peppermint tea.

"No." She sniffed again, "I never really thought about marriage." Her own tea tasted like stewed paper, and as a result, Will watched as it sat and grew steadily colder. Well, never in the way she meant—for even last night she had entertained herself with dreams of stealing her sister's fiancé away from her.

"That's absolutely ridiculous!" She daubed the corners of her mouth with a handkerchief that was embroidered with flowers and butterflies; it looked significantly out of place in her large callused hands. "Has your mother been putting the idea into your head that you're to be the one who stays here and mothers her when she's old and mad—der?"

"No…" Her mother hadn't said a word to her since yesterday, something that disturbed her very much. Although she'd dreamed of fleeing this place since she'd been able to walk, she had always imagined that her family would somehow feel—disheartened if she left.

"Hasn't she even sent you to any Balls, picnics?" She frowned and it was obvious that although she was asking these questions the answers were already made up in her mind. "Haven't you been introduced to any suitors?"

"Well, I went to some…I didn't like them much. At the last Ball I caught…measles. I had to cut my hair." She fiddled with the teaspoon, avoiding the older woman's strict gaze.

"What about your Mother's ball, the one she's throwing on your sister's behalf?

"What about it?"

"Well, aren't you going to attend? Have you already chosen what you'll wear?"

"I-I actually was thinking of not going." Will stole a glance at the towering woman, it only lasted a few seconds; her deep frown had turned her off entirely.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Well, Irma's not allowed to go, and I just don't really enjoy dancing—the shoes hurt my feet."

"Child, we are women, and we must suffer! How ever do you expect to get a husband if you don't go out and look for him?"

Will's gaze sank to the bottom of her tea. "What if I don't _want_ to be married?"

"Oh no," evidently furious she rose to the perpendicular. "This has gone on long enough! I want you to wash everything that your mother has ever led you to believe out of your head."

The china on the table clattered as she circled the table to get closer to Will. "I'm afraid that it isn't your decision to make any more my child. Your mother has destroyed your life so that if you don't marry, no one will believe that it's because you don't want to, but because you can't."

"I don't care what people think." Will lied, sniffling again. "They've never been kind to me or my family so why should I care?"

"No, no," the giantess rose her head, straightened her back. "You'll go to that Ball tomorrow; I'll make it so that when they say your name child…our name, it will only be out of admiration. Tomorrow night we'll begin to heal the scars and bruises that your Mother had inflicted upon your reputation."

Will sighed, the idea of Caleb and Cornelia sharing and intimate first waltz made her want to be violently ill. "My Mother probably won't want me to be there." She did _know_ after all, Will imagined that it had all probably slipped her mind due to all of the excitement.

"Well then your Mother may simply go into the record books for hosting the first Ball on the inside of a barn!"

She growled and walked away. Will assumed to conclude her so called wonderful plan to aid her fallen reputation.

She sank lower into the chair, the sounds of the evening birds surrounding her. She felt completely unexcited.

* * *

"Susanna!" Ms. Vandom barked from the top of the stairs.

"Yez…Missuz Vandom," she slurred sweetly from her spot on the floor.

"My granddaughter will be attending your Ball tomorrow. This is not up for deliberation." Irma peeked from out of Will's bedroom; he face fell, along with her heart. This wasn't fair! It was Will's fault that she couldn't go to her Ball in the first place…well, technically. So then why should she get to go enjoy herself?

"Yez…Missuz Vandom."

"Furthermore, I am borrowing one of your estate's carriages, although I am not asking your permission for that either since it is my dead son's money that pays for everything that you own."

"Yez…Missuz Vandom."

"I am also informing you that I shall be going to Jamestown to purchase my grandchild some _decent_ clothes, since I am certain that nothing you have bought for her will be to my tastes. I have very high tastes as you must know."

And she was getting new clothes too? Well, that was simply peachy!

"Yez…Missuz Vandom."

"Are you patronizing me?"

"Yez…Missuz Vandom."

Irma watched with mild fascination as Will's gargantuan grandmother attempted to throw her walking cane at her once daughter-in-law's head. "I should be back later tonight. Just be aware."

And she stomped away. Almost immediately afterwards her bedroom door cracked open. "Finally! Ah! She has left!" Yanlin stepped over the mass of brown silk and midnight curls that was her mother's intoxicated form.

"Susanna, get up now! Ah! There is much to be done!" She looked at the woman with a crooked smile. "What on earth are you doing on the floor? Irma! Ah! Stop lingering Haylin has to measure you for the bridesmaid gowns!"

"No," Susanna wobbled into an unsteady seated position. "N-No bridesmaids. Just finish…Cornelia's dress; they can sit in the pews with me."

"Why?"

"D-Don't ask questions Will."

"I'm Irma."

"I know who you are. I carried you for nine months, and believe me they felt like nine years!"

She toppled back onto the floor. Arms askew, Jeffery joined her there, wrapping his arms about her middle before promptly succumbing to the alcohol in his system and falling asleep.

* * *

**Author:** Epic, epic, epic, epic! That's our official CalebxWill theme/ motto. I want to finish this by New Years so that I can concentrate on bigger, better, more evil things. You know…school.

I named a character after myself, Caroline, that's as close to Mary Sue as I've ever gotten.

I can't believe how short this is, even though it has in everything that I need it to. Well anyway…review! And happy holidays!


	18. Chapter 18

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

Chapter Eighteen

* * *

Springtime is the love time, its smiles are hypnotic smiles, a mouth filled with strange white cloud teeth; and we as we see it become transfixed. Love, love, oh sweet love, of the Eros variety for wintertime is for the platonic, but in the spring the smell of beginnings, the image of the bees in their pollen embroidered ball gowns as they set off on a ritual of fertilization…it awakens us from our long winter's rest, propels us into a world of honey coated words and sensations like waltzes. The promises of long, yearning kisses and the temptation of sweet, tender lovemaking…become so much more than promises in the Springtime, so much more than reality as well, the honey causes hallucinations.

A dream in a dream time.

Summer causes us to awaken.

* * *

Susanna awoke in that odd hour, too early to be called morning, too late to be kin to the nighttime. Her head beat and throbbed, angry in its revulsion, in its anger at her for being defeated by her tiredness—an empty bottle of whiskey tumbled from her limp fingers—she listened, stupefied, as the glass clanked and rolled around on the floor, silence, perfect nighttime silence, and then, of course, within the quiet, the panic set in.

Regardless of the time, today…tomorrow…it was already _too late_.

The Ball…tonight…tomorrow night…_too soon_.

The wedding…

Her head ached as she sat up, and she buried her face in her hands as the nausea threatened to subdue her weakened mind. It was all falling apart around her, every plan that her frantic brain had invented—_but how?_ Only a few days ago everything had been going so well…Cornelia and Caleb had been getting along as well as could be expected…and _then_, what with Will and Irma, the family, the wedding woman, and then the death of _that girl_…it was all ruined. _How near was he by now anyway? Was he even coming?_

She couldn't bet anything that he wasn't. She needed to get Cornelia away…forget the scandal…a life of shame was obviously better than no life at all. She swallowed uncertainly, perhaps, perhaps Yanlin could take her back to…Ming Ling Land, or wherever it was that she had migrated from. Why hadn't she done this before? As soon as the family had rejected her she should have simply paid the old Asian lady to help her rather than going through this nightmare of a courtship.

Why did she always care so much about what others thought? Since she was a girl. She had married for money, and then married for property, married for passion and finally married for a title. And still, she had found herself in utter devastation! Now, it seemed that nothing would help this family's reputation…

But Cornelia, well, she actually had a chance—for a decent life free of scandal…a marriage, arranged or no, would have been splendid, a move, far, far away would have been better…but now, it seemed that all she would have was a hasty, ill planned abduction.

And then…he mind tumbled, her stomach sank; _what if_, after seeing Cornelia gone, he took interest in Will or Irma instead. Well, Will's swine sucking grandmother had already assured her that her oldest wouldn't be in her presence for much longer…and perhaps, at least for now,_ that_ was in everyone's best interest…she could worry of how to get Will back once that lunatic was in San Quentin.

Irma…well, she and Irma could easily go on a long trip, many people were talking of a spiritual journey for the girl in any case, Sister Louise had even suggested that Irma's sins were far beyond the experience of such a small religious practice as they had in Heatherfield, a trip to the Vatican, or more precisely Rome, wouldn't seem too out of place.

Her mind was made up, although her spirit was still undeniably grim. But it was for the best…all of it, and, like she had said to Will only a day ago, she did know what was best for all of them. Ironic really, thought Susanna as she covetously eyed the empty whiskey bottle, the only way to keep her family intact was through separation.

* * *

"Ah! Susanna, you are awake at last!" Her dark eyes darted upwards, Yanlin, attired in a long white Kimono stood, like a phantom at the head of the massive stairwell.

"Good, Yanlin, I needed to speak to you…" she cringed, making a mental note to speak more slowly next time.

"Now, now, here I made you this," she rushed forward with a steaming china cup, held delicately in her aged hands.

"What's this?" she cautiously took the brew from Yanlin, balking when the cup began to rattle on its saucer once it had been exchanged, "worms? Mud? Fungus?"

"No, chamomile." With a warm smile that couldn't be obscured even in the darkness, she stepped over Jeffery's slumbering form and sank to the floor next to her friend.

"So what was it that you wanted to ask?"

"It's about Cornelia…"

"Ah! Yes, Haylin finished her dress. It's quite beautiful, yes? She was quite happy with how it turned out, even though the boy saw her in it already…Haylin changed the sleeves a bit, to make her feel better, such a clever girl really…oh and here, these are yours," she thrust a series of feathers and ceramic ornaments into Susanna's lap. "She is such a talented creature, and she did it so quickly, any other dressmaker would have taken days."

"Really…the dress is finished?" She sputtered, ignoring by the smell of tea.

"Oh yes, and she looks so lovely. I have a veil in fact…in my trunk, I'll lend it to her…for ten cents a day, wedding or no, we can't get carried off and become paupers, ah!"

"Well, I'm…very happy that you finished the gown, but…the Ball is tomorrow night…the wedding the day after and…"

"_Tonight_ and I've pulled your cooks up to scratch, they're making the roast and some cakes, I do not believe that your other cakes will arrive in time."

"So then…everything is…" slowly, relief flooded her blood.

"Well no of course, we've finished the hole in your house, that'll be fifty quid, not including tax…so you may start decorating. May I suggest red and gold for the theme; they are quite popular in MingLing, or whatever." She winked cheekily.

Susanna, too overcome with gratitude, smiled slowly. "Thank you…for everything…you have no idea just how much…"

"And flowers, let's not forget them, they came a little after you…passed out, so to say. Since they were so late I convinced the man to give us a discount…fifty cents off! But of course, I kept it…too help pay off that tax that you owe me."

"Right, right." She nodded dumbly, relishing in the sensation of accomplishment. "So that's it then…"

"What did you want to speak to me about?"

"Oh, no…nothing…now that…" She pondered for a bit, "actually, that old bat," she lowered her voice in mockery, "Ms. Vandom," frowning she continued, "Wants to take Will to France or some such rubbish." Susanna snorted, inhaling some of the aromatic steam, "after all of these years, suddenly she pops out of no bloody where acting as though I'm the devil!"

"I dislike her as well…old toad! She can…how you say in English _qin wode pigu_!"

"Yes, yes, all of that. Old sack! Treating my daughter as though she's some sort of property…selling her off to the highest bidder!"

"Isn't that what you're doing with Corn flake though?"

"_Cornelia_! And no, besides, it's for a good cause in my case. She's just doing this to spite me."

"Are you certain?"

"Don't let her fool you Yanlin. Behaving as though I've kept Will hidden. She's been right here in this house for the last thirteen years. And this is only the second time that she's decided to visit. The first was when she'd heard some rumor in Pennsylvania that Will had burnt down the library at her school...you should have been there. She showed up in the dead of night, claiming that _I'd_ ruined her family's name."

"Ah, I see…so what is it that you want."

"She'll want Will to stay for the wedding, I'm certain. And no ships will leave on Sunday, she'll have to wait around for a bit…so on Sunday morning, no, Saturday night, after the wedding, I want you to take Will and leave. Go to Boston, you can stay in a hotel for a while…then bring her back here, I'll be taking Irma to Rome, she'll come with us."

"All of this?"

"Yes…I'll pay for your trouble, it doesn't matter. She'll get tired of looking for Will after a few months. Once she's married anyway, I don't think that she'll even give it a second thought."

"Oh, she won't like this."

"We'll just tell her that Will's run away. No one who knows her will disbelieve that."

"I must admit Susanna, ah, you are very clever."

"Well, I'd hope so. It took me long enough to figure that one out. I just hope that child won't put up a fuss."

"The poor dear, her heart is in turmoil you know." She looked at Susanna meaningfully; however the other woman did not return the gaze.

"I've tried to explain this to her…I don't, I mean, if there were any other way…I don't want her to be unhappy. But I can't risk everything for her first bout of heartsickness."

"Perhaps, if you told her what was in your heart, she'd be more understanding."

"Will…is just so…I can talk to Cornelia, really I can…I can _understand_ Irma, but her…she's simply…I wish that she'd listen."

"She does, believe me, she does. Actually," Yanlin struggled to her feet and then reached for the now, cold cup of tea. "I believe that you two are more alike than either of you realize."

* * *

Taranee couldn't believe her misfortune, a day and a half of searching, up, down and sideways through this house and nothing. Absolutely nothing to help her in her quest to for once, do the right thing. And it wasn't as though she was searching for the fountain of youth—all she wanted was some arsenic…a little rodent poison maybe…_it was for the greater good after all_.

Her mother had been a house nurse, she had taught her once, a lifetime ago maybe, exactly how to exterminate the unwanted…but _she'd _used leaves and barks found near their home…she was a far way from home now; Taranee sulked, even if she did remember which barks were for back aches and which ones for blood clots.

But there was nothing in this house, and the Ball, her golden opportunity, was tonight.

Desperation was far too weak a word…murderous, was far, far better.

Where the hell was Caleb anyway? He should be here helping her! He'd been utterly useless since she'd gotten here…

Oh right…she'd told him to stay away…well…he should have known that she didn't mean it! Men! They were the cause for every bit of strife in this world, women never did anything, and even if they did, it was all because of a man. All those women hanged over the years, bearing the consequences of murders committed in the name of love and passion, those were the only reasons women killed—bastard Caleb, the king of his breed. She'd wring his neck the moment she laid eyes on him…

She rounded the corner in a blind rage, her feet moving faster than her mind could churn…and she collided, smack, into a brick wall. The jolt of the crash reverberated through her entire body, shaking even her bones, causing her to fall to the floor in a mess of skirts, knives and gun…momentarily she forget herself and from her lips spewed the most vulgar words that betrayed her even more vulgar heart.

"Susan!"

_Oh shit._

Before she could react, Taranee found herself being pummeled by the woman's heavy walking stick, blows, which to Taranee's dismay came with a sermon. "I have the seen the lord in my dreams! And he is coming in the clouds! Your name will be called at judgment and hear this child, he sees you when you're sleeping, he knows when you're awake! He knows if you've been bad or good so be good for…"

"I'm not—" Sputtering with a combination of shock and confusion, Taranee managed to crawl out of the war zone, luckily, the beast hadn't been able to smack her more than once.

"You're not what— rueful of your dirty ways?" She whacked a vase, causing the entire thing to shatter. "Repent!"

"Woman, listen to me!" Hastily, Taranee snatched up her fallen possessions, and with one long, lingering glance at her favorite knife she snapped. "Thank God that I'm of no relation to you!"

"I'd know my own child! Even in this perpetual darkness!" Her wig had slipped off of her head, and now stayed painfully still, propped casually atop of her massive shoulder. "I came to find you and your heathenish soul to inform you that your father has taken in with one of his fits. He's decided that he is the Honorable Baron Luke De Duckriver and that he was sent by Napoleon to conquer me…who he believes is Russia. I need you to give him his medicines, for I cannot…"

It was as though her entire world had lighted up. This strange, bald, blind woman who was currently attired in a dress (which as well as being on backwards was carved from a print so loud, that she supposed it must have once been a curtain),seemed in her murderous, desperate, impatient mind, to be…an archangel, sent by God himself.

"Yes, yes…Mother," With a great effort and a massive smile, Taranee raised her voice several octaves and edged closer, albeit, cautiously. "You were saying?"

"You need to boil him some porridge so that he can take his crazy pills and retire. The doctors are beside themselves you know, your father in a state and a half. He asks for cheese every second of the day, it's as if he thinks that I am some massive cheese bearing swine. I am just glad that the Lord in heaven took away my sight, had I been left to see him in this way I would have blinded myself. You should think on these things."

"Yes, yes, that's exactly what I'll do." The falsetto continued, followed by a "tee-he-he" thrown in for good measure. "Mother, I shall take the pills to that old goat…err…_Daddy _myself. We haven't talked for so long…"

From downstairs Susanna screamed at a nearby maid, a breathy sound of sobs traveled beneath them, Taranee watched as the woman before her contemplated these sounds, "Susan, have you moved…" She spun her cane rapidly around tapping it furiously upon the floor. "Dear Lord I am lost. Fit to be devoured by the Moors and the Dutch!"

"O-Oh…no Mother!" Inside Taranee felt repulsed, over the past few days her intelligence seemed to be of little help in this house—here she was, resorting to cheap parlor tricks to get her way, she darted in front of the woman to make her voice clearer. "I…ah, have this condition…it makes my voice rise and fall…"

"You must have gotten it from your father's side of the family. He has a brother with fourteen toes, five of which are on his back!"

"Yes…" Taranee blinked, "…what?"

"And the smell from the man. I swore that God had sent us all to Hell."

"The pills Mother…for…Daddy dearest."

"Oh yes…" She closed her misty blue eyes and nodded, "I keep them with me at all times. Strapped to my bosom!"

_Oh hell no…_

"Child you'll have to reach inside my dress and pull them out…reach deep, they're slipping…"

_Oh fucking hell no…_

"Come on now child, don't be shy. I am your mother who carried you in her sturdy womb for nine months!"

_There were girls that needed her. There was a hefty payment with her name on it_—she swallowed. Bite the bullet…so to speak…touch the breasts…

Sally leaned forward, revealing a disturbing amount of wrinkled flesh. It was all Taranee could do to withhold the vomit that was currently speeding up her windpipe.

She diverted her eyes and inhaled a deep mouthful of air, begging that someone in heaven would pity her and numb her hand. No such luck. The years of blasphemy and thievery had black marked her name…It slipped in quite easily; slid along the salty, sweaty skin…it was like trying to capture smoke…what the hell was she looking for in any case?

"A little to the left…no _my_ left…"

"That _was_ _your_ left." Taranee hissed, forgetting about her imitation completely.

"Oh…then to the _right_."

"I have it!" Taranee yanked her hand free of the filthy confines of the woman's dress. "I-I mean…" she cleared her throat and raised her voice, "…I have it."

"Good girl!" She chirped happily, adjusting herself with a strange manner of inelegance due to the presence of her cane.

"I'll go give it to Daddy right away." She mumbled, before hastily wiping her damp hand on the woman's dress and running, as fast as she could down the corridor and locking herself into the guest room.

Stealing from the blind…it wasn't the worst thing she'd ever done. Potentially the most disgusting—but not the _worst_. She repressed a shudder and stared at the small cotton sack in her hand—and it was for the greater good.

"Do you hear that God?" She whispered, moving over to a night table to begin her preparations, she had precious little time left. "The greater good, so the next time I ask for a bit of help, I expect you to be a bit more giving."

* * *

Cornelia was in fine form this morning. After the humiliation of the day before, her pride had recuperated quite nicely due the barrage of compliments and gifts that had been doted upon her by the maids and the little dressmaker girl alike.

She had even forgiven her mother for the humiliation—probably stress, and of course the prospect of having her leave must have been wearing away at her nerves.

Besides tonight, tonight was her Ball. Her _engagement _Ball set to celebrate her upcoming union to that God...he was gorgeous. She couldn't help herself; she began giggling in a most unladylike manner. And tomorrow night…she'd spend her first night with him…and…she chewed on her lip thoughtfully…well what was she supposed to do then?

_Irma would know…_

Yes, Irma would know, but Heavens knew that she wouldn't ask. Oh, how hard could it be anyway? Thousands of people did it, so of course Cornelia Hale, would be effortlessly magnificent at it. He'd fall in love with her immediately, after seeing her radiant form attired in that stunning wedding gown…_wait what was that defiling her stunning wedding gown?_

She darted across the room to brush a stray thread away from her wedding dress, a beautiful white gown with fantastic embroidery and a fashionably large skirt that, oh yes, as she had clearly see out of the corner of her eye needed to ironed and starched—yet again.

It needed to be perfect after all.

"You rang Cornelia?" Without knocking as a cultured person would, Will stomped into her presence, leaving her bedroom door wide open as though she'd been raised in a barn.

"Mind you, close the door when you come in!" Cornelia snapped, looking at her sister's tired, miserable and overall offensive appearance. "And what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," Will replied distractedly, although she had moved, although in an odd, trance like state to obey her sister's orders.

"What did you want?" She folded her arms across her wrinkled plaid dress, her dead brown eyes lingering only once on the beautiful garment on display in the corner of her room. Cornelia followed her gaze, and mistaking the abstraction in her sister's eyes for envy began to gush about how dazzling, attractive, radiant _and_ astonishing, _she'd_ look in that dress. Furthermore, Will should attempt to carry herself with a better posture, she'd put in at the end.

"It's made of silk." She continued, "I don't know how _you'd_ look in white, you hair is so…bright, it would frighten the groom, I'm certain, but _I_ look simply ravishing," Cornelia's supply of adjectives seemed to have increased tenfold over the last few hours.

"That's…nice…Cornelia." Will mumbled, moving to sit upon the shoe encumbered bed, without the slightest look of genuine interest. Somewhere inside of her, Cornelia felt her heart soften, "oh don't worry Will. Someday, I'm certain that you'll get married…you're the most…err…" Adjectives seemed limited to herself however, as she sputtered for an entire half minute to find a word to accurately describe her sister, "…loyal, yes, loyal person I know. And those war veteran types love a good, loyal girl. And…once your hair grows out, you'll be pretty looking."

She smiled brightly; feeling even more contented when she saw Will return her smile weakly. "Are you packing your trunks already?" She indicated the shoes, stockings and bonnets that littered Cornelia's normally pristine bedroom.

"Not now…later." The blonde floated over to her closet, extracting a pale pink gown, "I need your help…Mother refuses to get me a new gown, so I'll have to wear one of my old ones." _Old_ meaning she'd had it in her possession for more than three months, but, as with the majority of her dresses, had never been worn since, of course, she'd never had the privilege of being invited to any sort of soirée. "It doesn't matter, they're all still fashionable, but what do you think? I've narrowed it down to this pink one and…" She placed the pink one atop of her cluttered bed and darted back to her closet and emerged with a red number.

"I think that the red might be too intense. But it's _my_ Ball, so I think that I should stand out."

"You'll look very nice either way." Will fingered the revealing neckline of the pink dress. "But…I don't like red."

Cornelia laughed a bit, "Probably because you're around it so much."

"Probably…" Will muttered.

"Maybe if I tried them on…Haylin placed horsehair at the hem of my wedding dress. Can you believe that? She said that it was to make the skirt fuller." She disappeared behind her changing screen, "Will come help me out of my dress…"

"Cornelia, I'm not feeling particularly well today…and my grandmother says that I have to go to the Ball…"

"Well, why shouldn't you go? As long as you promise to behave."

"I know…but," she sneezed, "I really don't like the crowds…" Cornelia seemed not to hear her because even through her conversation, "Oh! Do you know what I've forgotten, I have this blue gown in my closet…and yes, and I have these lovely blue ribbons to match. Will, be a dear and get it for me. It's sky blue and has sleeves made of lace, oh yes that will be amazing! It'll go so well with my eyes."

Will frowned. "Cornelia, I'm going outside for some air, I feel terrible."

"Really? Well, when you're downstairs call Emily for me. Tell her that she needs to iron my gown again, and that I need help preparing for the Ball."

"Right." She stomped away, but this time she did remember to close the door.

* * *

In comparison, Irma was in terrible shape that morning, and since her mother seemed to be intent on ignoring her completely and Will only stared at her blankly whenever she tried to covey the ailments of her broken heart, Irma decided that the only thing left for her to was to pester Cornelia, who, quite revoltingly was in raptures.

Her face hurt from sulking, but she refused to let up. She had been planning to make her way, once again, to Will's chambers, with the idea that Will would enjoy making Cornelia's life miserable as well, even though it was really her fault that she had been forced to resort to such childish maneuvers in the first place.

But Will wasn't there; instead, Irma caught sight of the rumpled looking red head as she staggered down the stairs. "Will!" She yelled, only to flinch at her mother's shill voice telling her not to scream in this house.

"Why aren't you in bed?" She called down to her sister, flinching at the wide crescent shaped bruise that lingered, devouring her alabaster complexion..

Will held onto the banister, looking groggy. "I…didn't feel like it. I'm going to get some fresh air."

The smell of roast…pig, chicken…cake—everything _was_ overwhelming, and Irma could sympathize since she'd been a victim to the tender head and the aching limbs for quite some time. "If you say so. I'm going to go visit Cornelia, I was going to hide her wedding dress and you could throw her shoes in the stable muck. But then again, you've been so dull recently."

Her sister sneezed again. "Feel better." Irma muttered, watching for a while as her sister walked downstairs, carefully avoiding the fat old lady who was tying ribbons to the edge of the newly polished banister.

_Poor Will_—she really wasn't taking this entire wedding thing well. And with good reason, she deserved a strong, handsome husband far more than Cornelia did…her mind made up, she sauntered into Cornelia's bedroom.

"Emily? Is that you?" The blonde called from behind the seclusion of her screen, not even her silhouette was visible, although her wedding dress was…

"Mother must really be desperate to get rid of you _Corny_." Irma muttered slowly, "having the wedding on a Saturday, when everyone knows to do such a thing is bad luck. Doomed I say, doomed to a life a lies and liquor, I'd only hire fat, hairy men to work at your house if I were you. Goodness knows that Mister Olsen won't wait to find someone a bit more welcoming for his bed."

"Irma?" She snorted loudly, "Well, pity that you aren't for hire isn't it?"

"Excuse me?"

"Oh what? You're so immature _Irmy_." Cornelia spat, "the only reason that you're here is because you can't go to the Ball and you want to try to spoil my wonderful day! Well, you can't!"

"I don't care for your stupid Ball! And apparently no one else does either! Why Miss Debutante, where are all of the guests?"

"Please, are you so tasteless? The Ball starts at six, so do you expect them to arrive before noon?"

"I don't expect them to arrive, at all!"

Forget the shoes in the muck! The dress was going straight down the well!

"Get out of my room, you're bothering me! I thank God that I'll finally be away from you!"

"Well his ears must be ringing because I've been waiting for this day for my entire life! You know what?" Irma recoiled, more than furious, "I was coming in here to steal your dress, but you keep it! I can't wait until you get the hell away from me!"

"You were _what_!" Her bodice had fallen from her shoulders and with her chemise revealed and barefooted, Cornelia darted from behind the mahogany screen, her eyes frantically scanning the room for her beloved dress.

After finding it safe and sound (and removing yet another stray thread), she reeled on Irma, immediately throwing several pairs of her shoes at her sister.

Unarmed, and seemingly outmatched, Irma retreated outside, still furious. Good, it was great that she was going! Old cow! How could life be this unfair in any case? Cornelia, _Cornelia_, got the happy ending, goodness, you might as will reward Lucifer for his initiative. Cornelia was destined to be the Cinderella at the Ball…she snorted, well…Cinderella did have her ugly stepsisters…even if they didn't have the common sense to wreck the happy ending. She did.

Little did she know just how well she had already succeeded in her task.

* * *

Will did obey Cornelia's orders, all the while feeling quite ridiculous because she knew that a few days ago; she most definitely wouldn't have let her sister tell her what to do.

She had found Emily in the kitchen among the other servants, all of whom seemed to be in the advanced stages of intoxication, their voices collected in one unharmonious melody, their bodies clasped together in lewd, loud gyrations.

"It's just something to celebrate!" Emily cooed, slinging a heavy arm over Will's shoulders. "She's leaving tomorrow can you believe our luck?"

"You mean Cornelia?" Will questioned hoarsely.

"But of course, we all chipped in to buy some wine…would you like a sip Miss? You look like you could do with some livening up."

"No…" She retched inwardly at the memory of her last encounter with alcohol, a memory that wasn't completely ridden with disgust. "…Cornelia wants you; she says that she needs her gown ironed…again."

Emily groaned, much to the dismay of the other revelers. "Ah, jus' one las' time there lass! Think of it, after tomorrow, she will be gone for good!"

"I've ironed that dress four times since last night!" She swallowed another mouthful of the alcohol.

"Well, Cornelia…she's well…she's Cornelia." Her apology on his sister's behalf had obviously floundered miserably so she grinned awkwardly, hoping that that would work to console the girl.

It didn't. Instead Emily released a rapid combination of swear words and incantations, so that Will was certain when she was finished, that Cornelia must be laying upstairs…dismembered.

* * *

The night is evil…for in the night, she was expected to dream, and dreams, currently led to unhappiness, to pain, and what's more, to adulterous behavior. The day is simply a sadist for those who already know this, here's something to expand upon—the sun scares away the breeze, leaving the humans to suffer in the heat, heat that boils away at the brain, at the morals…at anything worth listening to.

It had taken Will a full five seconds to realize that she shouldn't have come outside—for although on the inside dwelled Cornelia and her endless chasm of compliments (for herself) and suggestions, on the outside lay…_him_ simply put. And even through her runny nose and her burning eyes, she knew that at least half of her nausea couldn't be attributed to her sickness alone.

She hadn't seen him at all yesterday, a rather depressing fact, because he was now, obviously avoiding her…maybe, perhaps, she _had_ been looking, waiting as it were, for him to enter the house…if only to see Cornelia. The sight of his retreating back or the deep, comforting masculinity of his voice—she found that she missed them both terribly. And the sight, and for a moment her insides quivered erratically, of his eyes—brimming with…something so wild and unimaginable…that she dared not to dwell on it.

She had dwelled on it long enough, she decided, she had been driven very near to absolute stupidity last night, crawling into her bed with no intention of sleeping, merely with the plan to stare, with blank, dead eyes, (the side of her face aching and throbbing, her temples attempting to out do it) shamelessly at her bedroom window. For so long her portal to freedom, waiting, for him to dart inside, to sweep her away, to reassure her of her beauty (for freckles and scars both disappeared when he held her) and to whisk her away fully princess-like to a land where her loyalties didn't matter…where she could be free of all her fears and self-restraint…maybe there was such a place where she could have exactly what she wanted, and not feel guilty about it.

But only the cold winds visited her, and her skin crawled with disgust because, quite unhappily she had then discovered that the breezes were terribly wicked as well. Cold and unkind to be precise, and she'd had to crawl from beneath her covers in order to bolt the windows shut, and then she had watched for a long time as her so called freedom fell into the open mouth of the darkness.

Now, the fight had leaked out of her…she was too weak to fight both disease and emotion, and after a great internal debate, she had determined that physical well-being was far more important that emotional impassiveness. And so, quite grudgingly, she opened her heart to admit that yes, she was smitten. She liked the way that he looked at her, the way that his arms felt when they lingered on her waist—she liked being able to look into his eyes and see herself looking back, well, she liked being near him and she especially enjoyed the way that he made her feel, happy and excited…a rush of warmth and freeze…happy and sad. He was addictive…

And she missed him—very much.

But he…his eyes spoke one language, his mouth another—really, if he truly wanted to, he could just…take her away from here…

_She wanted him to_—maybe if she told him? But he was the one who had told her that they should stop…and Cornelia, the vision of her flawless gown was…a weight on her conscience to put it mildly…she couldn't ruin her sister's wedding. She couldn't put Cornelia through the heartbreak that was assailing her.

From out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of the two story cottage, just lurking from behind the barn…too many memories, now recollections caused a pang of guilt and shame to seize her body. And they were everywhere, they were in the house, on the walk, in the dust…trapped…she stayed stock still in the middle of the rounded cobblestone path. Utterly and completely trapped.

She coughed again, and this time her chest burned with the effort. She wasn't getting any better. The sun made her headache intensify in any case…_remember Will physical well being is the most important_, it was only a matter of time before her grandmother snatched her up and sent her off to be bled and scrubbed…maybe in Paris.

Perhaps…she sneezed, wrapping her arms about herself trying to press some warmth in her frigid limbs. Deciding that a change in position might help, she wandered around the back of the house, seating herself beneath her Elm tree, with her legs folded beneath the hem of her dress.

Maybe she should begin to focus on France, it might be nice, she'd always wanted to get away…and she'd heard rumors, mostly from Irma, and heavens knew where Irma had absorbed them, about the romantic French men…soon, she'd find someone to take her mind off of him.

Who needed men anyway? Maybe in France she'd find a hobby…become a…cobbler or something…maybe not a cobbler…maybe a librarian…or, another sneeze, or a detective.

"Will?"

_No,_ she didn't look up…she couldn't, her body had numbed itself, and her heart…had vanished, she was certain.

"M-Mister Olsen," she croaked, her voice was disgusting, a horrible blow to her pride because in this raspy state she couldn't at all pretend that she didn't care. _What did he want now?_

"I…need to talk to you."

No, no, not more talking. She sniffled audibly, and her cheeks flooded red with the realization of just how terrible she must look, she struggled to her feet with all of the elegance of an overturned turtle, clinging to the idea that she could still, somehow retain some dignity throughout this.

"We've…said enough I think." She clasped her hands together in front of her, too weak to move, too tired to fight, in fact the only thing that she could do was pull at her fingers in a horrible repetitive motion that mutely betrayed her discomfort.

"Just let me say this," his face was contorted as he obviously tried to find words for this situation. "I have been thinking…about us…about you."

"Mister Olsen…" she prepared to leave, but he blocked the path.

She swallowed, even at this distance, more than a foot apart; she could feel the heat from his body. She was shaking now, trembling almost violently, her heart had reappeared only to torture her, pounding against her sore chest so frantically that she imagined that she would burst.

His eyes lingered on her face and she looked away, unable to even breathe because of the knowledge that he was so near. And then, in the next instant, he was touching her, his large, warm hand was against her cheek, tracing the bruise there with practiced gentleness. "What…"

"I…fell, remember," She begged her body to pull away, deciding that her limbs might respond better to her pleas than to her commands—no such luck. Already she could feel herself melting, molding into his hands, like clay, her face shifted ever so slightly to curve into his embrace, her lips fell open and the wind nipped at her chapped lips in a despicable manner that caused her to shiver…

"Why…do you…" he seemed even more confused than she—and so effortlessly gorgeous because of it…

"I don't…don't touch me." Maybe his body was more obedient than hers…maybe he'd leave now if she told him to. Will lowered her head, her hair fell into her face as she moved; the unrelenting wind, threw dust onto her plans, pushed the memories into her heart, and of course, her lips refused to comply, although _his hand_ did recoil.

Her skin stung due to the absence of his touch…

"I needed to speak with you." He repeated, his face once more had become unreadable. She took a shaky step backwards and her back collided with the trunk of her tree, to her utter dismay, he came closer.

"I don't want to speak with you…" she peeled her eyes away from him, staring instead at the many bushes and flowers that decorated her mother's garden. "I want you to leave me alone, because…I am very busy…and unwell…and…"

"Could you just be quiet for one minute?" he sounded tired, bothered—it made her feel immensely uncomfortable, worse, it made the rumbling of discontent in her chest explode in an unexpected whimper. "What is it?" she whispered.

He expelled a long breath, choosing his words carefully, "I know we said that we would stop…but I can't. Not without letting you know…"

_We'd_ decided? No—_he'd_ decided, _he'd_ told her, _he'd_ made her believe in all manner of things that she still couldn't chase out of her mind. She would have never done this to him, because obviously, she was simply _that_ foolish. _That_ naïve…her blood slowed…

_Was that it?_ Was he here to rub it in her face?

She shook her messy head, feeling dizzy but not relenting, this pain was nothing in comparison to…the knowledge that her heart was broken, shattered into pieces that were too small to imagine. She didn't know anything about these matters, and her introduction, through him, had been undeniably harsh.

So she'd wanted him to rescue her? Why? All he'd done for her so far was make her blood race and her palms sweat. She should hate him for leading her on, for making her this foolish and weak; she clenched her fists by her sides. _So hate him then._

_Do it._

"I don't care about what you have to say. You're _engaged_ Caleb, to my _sister_. I _won't_ do this to her, I _can't _do this." her words drifted through the gardens, they sounded almost believable to her ears, she hoped that the effect was shared with him.

What more could he possibly have to say anyway? That she reminded him of a dog in heat? He'd most certainly treated her that way…

"Will you let me finish?"

She glared at him, the word "no" was heavy on her lips—but she stayed silent. Obviously she'd found a piece of that broken heart, lodged in the ever unpredictable hope section of her mind.

"The marriage to Cornelia, well…it won't happen." the irony of the words struck him, more suitably worded, the sentence would have been: he was never going to marry Cornelia, but still these words flowed from his mouth. "Because, well…"

She stared at him as though he had damned them all. But these were the words that she had prayed to hear, these words would lead to the rescue, to the escape…she would never feel beautiful it seemed, for suddenly panic made her straighten her back and raise her head…she was so confused and angry and hurt—and afraid.

She didn't know what to think or what to feel…so she clung to what she knew, the fear held her in its long, dark arms, caressing her, warming her, giving her the strength she needed to refuse him, "it _what_?"

"It isn't very lady-like to interrupt you know." he began to run his fingers through his already hassled hair.

"What will you say to _her_, to our mother…three hundred invitations have already been mailed, and you want to _cancel_…" she had wanted to pace, but she didn't trust her shaky legs not to collapse so she remained attached to the tree.

"That doesn't matter…if you'd just _listen_ you'd understand." He pushed, deciding now to deafen his ears to anything that she had to say, her words were most distracting, considering that essentially they were not having the same conversation.

"Oh just stop it!" She snapped, feeling entirely frustrated…with herself mostly, but she continued, knowing, hoping that this resistance was for the best. "If this is because you don't love her, then, you will simply need to try harder…"

"_I can't_—" he began his confession, but stopped short. _What – love?_

"You _won't_" she pressed, "You are too stubborn and impulsive and in all honesty the haughtiest man that…"

"Will, _no_, for God's sake, stop talking…you're not understanding what I'm trying to…" a hand rose to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"What don't I understand?" she seemed livid now—well, more livid than usual. "This has all been a mistake…it's the summer heat, causes delusions, you know, and those things that you said…that _I_ said, well they don't…"

"I need you…I _meant_ what I told you, and I can't stop thinking about you…I need you to be near me," the words had escaped the chain he had placed on them.

She paused for a moment, as if trying to decide what to say. He couldn't be doing this to her…a wave of emotion, too large and too precious for her to even think about impeding, collided with her resistance, her breathing became unreliable, and soon she found herself craving the taste of the cool evening breeze on her tongue…it helped, even with the taste of memories.

Words, so many words and thoughts that she had collected and stored away in her heart rode this wave and she swallowed, begging it to disappear—the fear helped, and together, panic and stubbornness did manage to restrain her silly notions—but her eyes betrayed her stony façade, and he seized his chance.

"I have never felt this way about anyone," he couldn't help but feel immensely stupid; she seemed so unimpressed with his pronouncement, although, _at least_ she had stopped talking, maybe now he could actually tell her what he'd wanted to say. "And I know that I never will again."

Her head dropped onto her chest, and he waited, his breathing forced and heavy, for an answer, he'd wait for her response, Caleb reassured her nervous conscience—then he'd know if he could risk this…

_Say something…_

"What do you want me to say?" she muttered after a long silence. "That _I love you," _she flinched, something had gotten lose, "…that I want to be with you…is that what you'll tell my _mother_, that you can't marry her prettiest because you're unfortunately obsessed with _me_?"

"Don't, Will…please," This certainly wasn't going as he had intended.

"Well, I don't," she forced her gaze upwards and locked her eyes into the prison of his steely jade orbs. "I don't love you, and I don't care about who you need or who you want..."

Will's resolution was cut short when Caleb bent and brushed his mouth against hers. Her lips were trembling, more hesitant now than even the first time he'd dared to kiss her, but she didn't resist him…it was perhaps the most amazing thing about her, just how different her kisses always tasted, they moved from spicy, to sweet, to tender…to this; _pained_, tortured, reserved—

He'd caught her by surprise, and for a moment, if only for a moment, she allowed herself to become completely absorbed with the feel of his warm mouth as he gently moved his lips against hers, with each caress he broke her, each sensation left her yearning for more, it was too much…far too overwhelming, too frightening what he could do to her.

She wished she could stay there, and allow him to completely ravage her mouth and body as she had grown accustomed to from all those days of infatuation before.

But she couldn't.

She couldn't stand to have him hurt her again.

She wouldn't allow her family to come to shambles because of her.

She shouldn't…after all, she wasn't this selfish.

The dull sound of her hand colliding with his face reverberated throughout the morning. He glared at her with as much aggravation as she had ever seen in him before, but she refused to waver.

"I have given you my answer," she replied. "You should accept that…and leave me alone."

And this time when she prepared to leave, he made no effort to stop her. He was a solider after all, and his years of training had taught him to appreciate defeat.

* * *

She had moved as quickly as she could manage, finally coming to a breathless halt at the very back of the house, next to the servant's entrance, where she could still make out the sounds of the staff's celebrations. Even they'd be upset with her if the wedding was cancelled…

She swallowed, difficult because of her heavy tongue and swollen throat.

She should be proud…after all, she was being noble and _mature_ and wise, and a real live martyr almost. But her head felt heavy where she'd slapped him, and her eyes burned even more furiously than before, it took her a while to realize that the latter was because of the appearance of tears.

"Look at me…" Will muttered, "…I'm falling apart."

More miserable than she'd ever felt in her life, Will fell to the ground in a small ball, gasping for breath through her mouth, causing a choking, gurgling sound to surround her. This wasn't fair—but what was so unfair about it? The majority of this was self inflicted.

_Would Cornelia do the same for her?_

Heavens no.

_Yet_—she struggled to withhold the unhappiness that had spilled from her heart into her veins. It didn't matter what Cornelia did, she was doing the right thing…and regardless of how miserable being good made her feel…

_You're afraid._

It all came back down to that didn't it? She was afraid of what he had shown her, a world of adult feelings and emotions, too large and magnificent to be understood by her mind. A world where she could be free…she had craved after freedom for so long that now she could feel it—she was terrified of holding it.

It was such a risk, giving everything to another—_what if_ she couldn't do it? _What if_ she woke up one day and he'd grown tired of her hair color or the freckles on her nose? What then?

_What if_ he was being truthful? And _what if_ he did feel for her exactly what she felt for him? What then? She swallowed, easier this time because the tears had ceased.

It didn't matter anyway, she was already to her feet, she had left his heart in his arms, and her body was desperate to be reunited with its most cherished organ. Hell, he could keep it, she almost laughed, holding her stupid, ugly, frilly skirts and apron in her hands and running from behind the house…she'd satisfy herself with being near it…or maybe, and again her insides quivered in delight, he'd give her his instead.

"Caleb," she called, remembering to lower her voice just in case anyone in the house had taken a sudden interest in this side of the property. God, skirts were such a pain, she thought…how could be expected to catch up to him in these?

He'd left already; the shadows beneath her Elm tree were a lonely bunch…so where was he? Back in the cottage? _Maybe_…she prepared her body for the sprint—energy came easily now that she was fueled with excitement.

"Hello Miss Vandom," she stilled mid motion, the wind had stopped once again, but the sun, oh no, the sun was remorseless.

Slowly she whipped her body sideways to face the sneering, arrogant face of a Mister Potter. Joseph. She bit back a groan. "What are you doing here…"

"Who are you looking for there _Freckles_?"

"No…no one." She stammered, making a gigantic effort worthy of Atlas himself to look innocent. She could tell from the smirk along his twisted lips that she was failing miserably.

"I came to see you of course, a friendly, social visit." He walked closer, but she didn't back away, "imagine my surprise when I saw that you were already entertaining."

The blood in her face drained away, and for an instant her alarm showed in her face, she was certain that he'd caught it.

"It seems to me Miss Wilhelmina," he came closer still and placed his hand atop of her cheek, effectively chilling her, "that the apple didn't fall too far from the tree where you were concerned. Jacob was right wasn't he? And to think of all that fuss you got on with…"

"I don't know what…"

"Oh you don't?" He smiled, revealing his oddly straight, white teeth, "That's fine Freckles. Let me remind you."

He moved to kiss her, immediately clouding her already confused senses with his strong cologne, but she managed to pull away and once more, he smiled. "It's funny; you never once kissed me _like that_."

Coolly, far too coolly, he straightened his already impeccable clothes, she briefly considered smacking him—but what good would that do? He'd undoubtedly whine to his grandmother…and then…she swallowed, the euphoria drained out of her with her skin color…_and then what?_

"What do you want Joseph?"

"Who is he by the way?" But from the way he was speaking she knew that he was already well aware of the answer. "Isn't he your sister's husband?" he whistled, "well, that's low…and you're such a pretty little girl, you really don't need to behave so desperately."

"If you don't have anything important to…" Her voice, even in its hoarse state had struggled to reach a few octaves higher.

"Oh but I do. There's a ball tonight, and its right here isn't it?"

"Joseph, stop fucking around, what the hell do…"

"Go with me."

"Excuse me?"

"I said, that I am offering you the pleasure of my company at this lovely event." He made a great show of studying his fingernails, as he waited for her response.

"This…this isn't an actual invitation is it?" Will lowered her gaze. "I don't have a choice…do I?"

"Oh you always have choices Freckles," His dark blue eyes bored deep into her brown ones, "the question is, what will you choose?"

She frowned, backing away from him in utter disgust, "tonight then."

"Clever girl."

* * *

**Author:** I shouldn't punish Taranee like this, but I find it funny. You might just find me weird. It's strange that you **LIKE** these characters, seeing as they too are weird. I made most of them up, only Yanlin and her obsession with boiling "herbal remedies" is based on someone I know. Because if you haven't noticed by now. My mind is a wee bit…warped. I did my research and San Quentin prison was used in the 1850s. Haha! I wanted to use Alcatraz but it came too late.

That was some Chinese up there, it meant Kiss My Ass. And you see, Susanna isn't all bad, she's doing this to save Cornelia's life. And I know that that's a cardinal sin in our book, but let's pretend that it's a good thing.

I won't get to finish this by New Years…duh. SO my new deadline is Valentines day, which is strange cause I started this in February.

**PS:** HA, if someone was ever optimistic enough to publish me, a romance novel that is written (80 of it at least ) by a seventeen year old Catholic school brat then I think we should all weep for the future of the literature industry. But hey, you wouldn't have to buy it; I'd give you the first book for free.


	19. Chapter 19

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

Chapter Nineteen

* * *

Most individuals can successfully testify that worry is too oftentimes over-exaggerated. Regardless of the headaches and the tears, the gruesome words and facial expressions, life has an odd way of fixing itself, so that we don't have to.

This might have been an important life lesson for a certain ball throwing mama—had she the time to internalize it, for you see, even as the house (seemingly on its own accord) became decked in ribbons of silver and blue and flowers of white and pink—even as the band arrived (two hours early) and began to play a very lively jig and then suggested that someone start the _Virginia Reel_ or perhaps the always entertaining _Broom Dance_—even as the nearby tables had become flooded with (hopefully) delicious pies and savory meats, Susanna stood, unaware of the frantic efforts of a very elegant Jeffery (clad in a extravagant green paisley pantsuit, complete with a hot pink cape) as he tried to comb her frizzy hair.

"Your lady and highness, even though you pale the sun and the moon with your beauty, the hair frames the face—and I must say, now, in this state, it does you no justice."

She didn't respond, for you see, terror had wrapped an iron fist upon her tired heart, closing off her windpipe and presumably, her voice box as well. "Where?" she whispered, a perpetual frown was slapped onto her face, causing a web of wrinkles (which mind you, hadn't been there last week) to coat the alabaster countenance that she prized so highly.

"Where…what Madam?" Jeffery tugged at a particularly tangled lock, pulling out a great deal of her dark hair…only to remove it from the comb and store it in his pocket—for his collection.

"Where are all the guests?" Susanna snapped, suddenly turning on her servant and pushing him away, you see, now we have successfully _hit the nail on the head_, so to speak, we've _gotten to the bottom_ of this mystery. For, even at forty-three minutes past the five o'clock hour (so said the antique grandfather clock in the parlor) not a single guest had arrived for the six o' clock soiree.

And it is, by all means, a very unusual feeling (unusual here means very uncomfortable and panic inducing) to stand at a door to your house that is covered in ribbons and flowers and balloons and stacked to the hilt with cakes and pies and stews…only to realize that out of those two hundred plus invitations that you set away—no one, not even one person had decided to come.

Certainly, at four o'clock, when you're not even ready yourself, you aren't worried that no one will appear, in fact, _they're _probably at home, just like you are, coating their bodies in copious pieces of silks and lace in an attempt to out do the hostess. But of course, by five o'clock, (standard parlor time) when no one has yet to darken your doorway, and there isn't a hint of horse or carriage upon the long, winding yellow road that now stares mockingly at both you and your flawless rose gown—your heart sinks, your blood seems to have been replaced by moths (or some other fluttering insect) and you stand, transfixed, mouth agape, holding on to the hope, to the idea that some one cares enough about you to…

And then she saw it, the blurry outline of a horse—oh wait—yes, yes, and a carriage too, and the moths migrated, her heart slowed, and the sensation of retreating lunch that had been crawling through her windpipe for hours now subsided. She rushed forward, brushing the folds of her gown and adjusting her pearls, making a doomed attempt to fix the ball of hair that was pinned precariously to the top of her head.

"Hello," she smiled charmingly, and her hands fell to her skirt, she paused, mid curtsy waiting for the driver to disembark, when he did however, both hands and smile fell away.

"Patrick?" Susanna sputtered barely able to absorb this new piece of information, "what are you…"

"Susanna, what on earth are you wearing, isn't pink typically reserved for persons _under _forty?"

Against all hopes, prayers and rituals, it seemed that Miss Vandom had survived Jamestown in one piece—and brought guests along for the return trip apparently, as two other women disembarked from the carriage, their hands laden with boxes, and followed mutely behind her into the house.

"You, where is Wilhelmina?" frowning, the massive woman (made even more menacing by the dark travelers cloak that she had chosen to don for the occasion) prodded, poked and then finally smacked Jeffery with her walking stick, before finally hearing his muffled "upstairs".

"Good, good." She turned around, and for a long instant Susanna imagined that she might be dreaming, was Miss Vandom—_smiling?_ The horror must have shown on her face, for the older, larger woman scowled at her almost instantaneously: "what the bloody hell happened to your hair? Fix it!" Then she reconsidered, "never mind, it will help my situation if you look like a drunken madcap…by all means," she smiled widely, "carry on."

"Did you enjoy your trip?" Suddenly overcome with frustration and anger Susanna snapped, hoping that every bit of sarcasm and rudeness that she had been trained to hold back flowed into her words.

"Actually I did. When I explained to Lady St. Clair my situation she was incredibly helpful, she even sent this her lady's maid and cobbler along with me, so as to ensure that Wilhelmina looks her best." The way in which she said it was so full of spite that Susanna imagined that the red head half expected her to melt with repressed fury.

"Right," turning away, and unconsciously adjusting the ball atop of her angular face, Susanna faced Patrick as though he had committed mutiny, "drive the carriage into the Barn with others, Patrick. I'll need the driveway clear for when my _invited _guests arrive."

"It would do you well to remember some humility Susanna, my only concern is for my grandchild's…your child's well being."

"But of course. Well, now you see that we have in common, now if you do not mind Miss Vandom, I have guests to greet." She glared at the dusty country road with a renewed fascination, although her ears struggled to capture each and every sound that the woman's heavy feet and cane made as she clamored up the stairs.

_Dried up old bitch_—using her own daughter against her, _she'd see_, thought Susanna heatedly as she picked at the hairpins and ribbons that Jeffery had desperately pushed into her hair, _oh she'd see Will's best interest_, and for a good long time she entertained her frustrated and frazzled mind with the thoughts of doing exactly what she had accused her former mother-in-law of planning.

It was a wondrous feeling, when one was able to accomplish a good deed whilst still striking your enemy down in the process.

It was almost enough euphoria to distract her from the fact that even as she stared faithfully at the path before her, the dusty country road remained empty.

* * *

It was strange how some feelings could be heavy, the ones like sorrow and regret that weighted down on one's chest—and then there were others that could be light, these were the ones that originated at the soles of the feet and in the pits of stomach, those were things like happiness and excitement—things like that wordless sensation that he had inflicted upon her…

Will turned onto her side, tracing a pattern onto her unmade bed. The servants had stopped their reveling by now, after her mother had sworn at them to "haul their lazy arses into the Dining Room" obviously so that they could all chip in with the decorating details, Cornelia had tossed Emily mere minutes ago after the girl had apparently burnt either her dress or her hair—a sinister little voice within Will's tender, throbbing mind hoped that it was both—and Irma had disappeared sometime after lunch, muttering to herself.

She was alone, completely abandoned and sinking in her swamp like thoughts, ideas that stuck to her skin and pulled her under, until they had found haven in her nostrils and ears and everywhere else that they could find to creep into, until they had wrapped their grimy hands about her brain and heart, until she couldn't even breathe without inhaling their stench.

Even after Joseph had left she had wanted to go find Caleb—but after the spur of the moment had left her, she hardly felt eager enough to blurt out the contents of her heart to him—even after all that he'd said. Now, it just seemed foolish—not to mention _awkward_ to just run into his bedroom and claim that—that what? She loved him? And with that her insides shuddered, no—maybe, could she? She didn't know what love was, she wasn't even too certain that she wanted to know—all right, yes, perhaps she did want to know, but that still didn't help to contribute to the creation of a decent speech.

Such things should be perfect—she was certain of that.

She'd have to thank Joseph, she considered glumly, suppressing a cough even as she rolled onto her back—he had saved her a great deal of embarrassment it seemed. Oh that would be lovely, a dialogue with him. The last time, as she remembered, that she had been forced into a conversation with him, he'd spoken solely of his parents' money, his grandparents' money, the money he intended to make and finally, how lucky she was to be near someone of such magnificent wealth. Well, perhaps he hadn't phrased it in such a blunt manner, but when one lists the number of tobacco fields that one's parents own, it's fairly obvious what you're attempting to say.

Even Jeffery had dozed off, as she remembered it. And of course this Ball would be a repeat, she could feel it—a reproduction with dancing thrown in for some sadistic God's amusement.

Maybe she wouldn't even need to tolerate it or him—maybe. Will listened happily as the clock downstairs chimed six, and then once more as another in the hallway followed suit—and still no grandmother.

When Will had asked a very animated looking Yanlin maybe an hour ago on the location of the giantess (how foolish it had seemed that someone her height, width and girth could have been misplaced), the oriental woman had replied, quite happily, that she had gone to Jamestown, and by all means probably wouldn't be coming back in a useful state.

So it seemed like no Ball.

Her mother most definitely wouldn't make her go; no, no, she was too distracted screaming at everyone who dared look for her for longer than five seconds. She wasn't bothered with Will—and so, Will saw no reason to bother herself. She'd stay right here until she had formulated a very intelligent way to confess her—_feelings_, and then she'd sneak downstairs and find someway to get Mister Olsen's attention, Irma might even help, if she even turned up. And after that? The cough that she'd been trying to withhold finally broke loose, shaking her small body until her head thudded violently.

Well, it could only get better.

"Wilhelmina! Why, have you had a bath yet?"

_Couldn't it?_

"Grand…" She didn't need to finish, her Grandmother's massive size had already choked and killed all of the light that had been playing near her bedroom door; and slowly that strange, sleepy nighttime darkness began to tiptoe into her chambers.

"Oh, never mind, you look clean enough. This is her ladies…" Two more figures sauntered into her space, and almost immediately Will felt the massive hands of perfume wrap about her lungs. She began coughing at once, but only started sneezing when one of the women, a very slender ginger haired lady, took it upon herself to start to unbutton her day dress.

"What…" she closed her eyes and coughed again, ignoring the snapping tongue of her attacker, "…stop it…I can…" she sneezed, and then the woman backed off, "…take off my o-own clothes."

"Zis, zis is terrible! A travesty! Zou, you never said to me zat she was nearly bald! How am I to style ze hair!"

"She is not nearly bald!" Hands flew downwards to tug at her shoes now; hastily tossing away Cornelia's borrowed boots before pressing a ruler against her soles. Miss Vandom seemed to take Will's lack of hair as a personal insult, because even as Will squirmed and shrieked against the ministrations of what she had finally decided had to be a cobbler, all the older woman did was yell at the short blonde woman—who Will realized seemed to switch nationalities with her moods, since she now seemed to possess a very strong Irish accent—about the variety of hairstyles that could be used to as she put it, "enhance her father's eyes."

"And you could curl it! Place it on the top of her head, had you a shred of imagination…"

"Bloody hell! If ya' 'thin tha's about me imagination, Ah reckon ye be mad!"

"Tell someone to fetch some bath water; cologne on an unwashed body is simply the most revolting thing that you'll ever be forced to inhale."

Will choked once more as the woman's bony arm wrapped about her middle, for what purpose she was not about to understand. "I suspect that you speak with experience." It had slipped, honestly, but luckily the other members of this play seemed too engrossed with just how daunting a task it all seemed to be.

The scrawny wench had finally pulled away long enough to run downstairs in order to find some water, and, hopefully (due to the width of her long arms) someone to haul it into the porcelain tub. And Will had taken this time to dizzily skulk away into her closet, the aroma of what used to be flowers still trapped in her nostrils. How strong was that anyway? She hadn't been able to smell anything since—two days ago maybe, she placed a hand on her wall to steady herself from the pain in her temples.

"Wilhelmina? Come along now child, this isn't the time to be modest, I want you ready within the hour…we're already late."

"I-I…can bathe myself thanks." She rasped, clinging to her dress as though it were a holy shroud.

"Wilhelmina," and it was then that she heard the steady _thump_ of her footfalls, "the people of France are very…liberal, and if you intend to fit in, this bashfulness just will not do."

"You should embrace your body Miss," the ginger haired cobbler woman (who had apparently returned from her water gathering trip) put in, forcing Will to seriously banish any idea of undressing in front of any of them—especially her.

"Well, I'm not in France yet." Will scowled, gasping for air as another wave of dizziness covered her tiny frame.

Had she been stronger, or had her voice been in a better state, she would have declared that she had never asked to go to France in the first place, and then stomped out of the room tossing anyone who dared to cross her into the very tub that they held waiting.

But since her body had only moments before become overtaken with fierce shivers, and her head and stomach both seemed fit and ready to leave her torso, she was captured easily by her grandmother who, at least, had the decency to let her undress behind a screen before tossing her into the bath—which, wouldn't you know, was absolutely freezing.

"Oh, stop complaining!" Miss Vandom snapped suddenly before tossing a bar of soap into the water, Will didn't pick it up, instead she concentrated on hiding her more sensitive bits from the prying eyes of—the cobbler, who had now introduced herself as Gloria and volunteered to help wash her hair—_others. _

Whilst Will, contemplated these things, her grandmother appeared at the foot of the bath with a large white dress in hand. "Isn't it stunning?" She turned it around so that Will could see the extravagant violet bow that was fastened onto the rear. "I think that it'll suit you perfectly." Then she frowned as Will sneezed again, truly the pinnacle of her excitement.

She supposed the dress was very lovely, as far as dresses went at least, but even from here, in her soapy, sudsy surroundings, she could just make out the fashionably low cut of the bodice, and the long, glamorous, full skirt. She was already dreading putting it on.

Perhaps if she'd been blessed with Irma's front—or even Cornelia's length, but, maybe her grandmother would realize that she was a hopeless case and leave her in Heatherfield after she saw her in the dress, so it wouldn't be a total loss…France now seemed a thousand times worse than her Mother and Irma could even dream of becoming.

"Are you clean yet?" Gloria questioned, obviously itching for the word yes.

Will shook her head rapidly, causing the damp tendrils of her crimson colored locks to cling to her cheeks and lips. "Yes, she's done by now," replied her evil non-fairy grandmother, removing a metal contraption from a trunk and setting it up—"Wilhelmina, hurry and get dried off."

"I'll help!" Gloria piped up, but this time to the deep blue of Miss Vandom's gaze, "what do you mean _you'll help_?" she scowled.

"Well…I mean, since it's so very late…" Will ducked beneath the water, watching as the Amazon like woman marched over to the cobbler and snatched the towels away, then demanded that Gloria go find some hot coals. Even if Will could feel some gratitude towards her kin, the woman then decided to dry her herself—roughly, so that Will was pink from head to toe by the time it was all over, although, as Miss Vandom claimed, she was now, _spotless_.

Powders followed, along with oils that apparently smelt like _Roses_ or some such frivolous thing, she couldn't tell, for nearly everything smelt like dust in her present condition. The dizziness and overall pain was far too great for Will to even consider protesting when a cotton chemise was pulled over her head—although she did manage to groan when her legs were actually raised and bent into a pair of pantaloons, which her grandmother happily tied up for her.

"Now, watch Wilhelmina. I understand that you Yankees live behind God's back, but see, you simply step inside the hoop and I'll pull it up." Will didn't understand why she was explaining all of this to her, since she the very next thing that she did (after forcing on some petticoats) was to pull her grandchild into the direction of the metal hoop and lift her into the center of it.

Then came the delicate heeled satin shoes which felt anything but, they were dreadfully painful, and upon noticing Will's displeasure, her grandmother hastened to explain, "Gloria couldn't find the leather that we wanted. So you'll have to settle for this harder type." It seemed fitting that her feet should feel like they were trapped in the Iron Maiden, really it was the perfect topping for tonight's festivities. Next was the part that Will had been dreading—the corset.

"Lo' a dat tho! She waist does look so small already, an' you a wan' ta mek it smalla?"

"Oh be quiet, are the combs ready?"

"No, ya ah see de woman come back hey wid 'em…but looka hey, try and finish de chile clothes do."

Had she thought that she'd felt nauseous before, the sensation of having her intestines pushed up to her throat made everything infinitely worse. "That'll do." Mopping her brown, the older woman smiled at her handiwork, although Will was certain that she had only ceased her efforts after realizing that the girl's waist could shrink no further.

"I can't…breathe," she muttered.

"Well, yes, that's the desired effect."

Without further ado, the gown was pulled on, and ribbons were tied, lace was adjusted and silk was tilted until it was deemed, _resplendent_.

By now, Gloria had arrived with coals in hand (all the while whining that she'd had to pilfer them from a room across the hall), and with the report that it was almost seven, and the guests, were now, finally, beginning to arrive.

The next thing that Will forced her achy, twisted mind to absorb, was that she being forced into a chair and that her hair was being combed, and her face being painted all at the same time, since according to the dear old Grand-mama, there was no time left to do them both separately. The upside was, of course, that whenever the comb dared to scald a piece of skin that was "in the way" it was painted almost immediately, so that no one was the wiser.

Her hair wasn't too short to be curled, but the blonde (as all blondes seemed to be naturally vicious) seemed determined to prove otherwise, and so she burnt and twisted, clipped and brushed, all the while complaining about the state of her fingers due to the stress and pain that _she_ was so dutifully enduring, (not once mentioning the state of Will's scarred neck, which Will herself would only discover later after the powder had been removed), finally her hair was pinned (with seventeen hair pins, for she had counted each and every jab) and pressed into an elaborate knot at her nape, and as if to add more injury to the entire insulting ordeal, a few white, round, pearl like things were pinned about her crown.

The blonde, despite her complaints, seemed utterly pleased with herself, and couldn't stop discussing her genius with anyone who would listen (which presently was just herself), a dab of red paint upon her lips and then, Will was finally allowed to gaze upon her reflection.

With all of the pins and the cosmetics and the bows, she wasn't recognizable, in fact, (Will scrunched up her nose after determining that it was the powder on her face that made her cheeks burn), she thought at that very moment that she looked like a prostitute.

"You look gorgeous, simply stunning."

Which was apparently, an incredibly good thing or at least as the blonde woman stated "very fashionable and enviable". Will wasn't convinced—even as the three women fluttered about her, tugging at the bows on her shoulders and peeling the dress (that apparently had found something to showcase) in a very southward direction, she sincerely wished that she could disappear, because the prospect, of anyone, much less an entire ball room of persons seeing her—dressed up like this weekend's prized pig, made the bowels lodged next to her lungs roll.

"Nana…don't," she muttered, but with her small voice, and limited oxygen supply, she couldn't manage to plead very effectively. "I hate it," she decided, and at least for a second the buzz of excitement ceased, "I don't want to wear this, I don't want to go…"

"Wilhelmina…" her grandmother seemed genuinely surprised insulted, embarrassed and then, subsequently, irritated. "This isn't the time, you're already dressed, and from what I've heard there's a handsome young man calling for you downstairs."

_Joseph_, her blood chilled. "Well, I hate him too," she continued to gasp, feeling more naked in all of these trappings than she had, even in the tub those minutes prior.

Miss Vandom drew closer, pressing her massive hands against the back of the mahogany chair that Will was seated on, unintentionally, but successfully drenching her reflection in shadow. "You are being silly." Her tone lacked laughter, her face preached conviction and hard tenacity, "most girls would delight at…" she clicked her tongue, and Will watched in the dresser mirror as she reached deep within her cloak, seemingly reaching for her pipe—instead she withdrew a necklace, pearl, from what she could see, the soft moonlight held onto it's surface, making it shine for all the world to see.

"This is for you," she stated gruffly. "I thought that it would look…_pretty_ with your dress, you see, it was mine once," Will tilted her head (ignoring the pain that struck out at her in all directions) to see the woman's face, as though to check her truthfulness, for it hardly seemed that anything so fragile could have once adorned the neck of such an…imposing female.

Will for a second, thought that she might place it about her neck, and she did not disappoint. "I only want what is best for you," her _mother had told her these very words hadn't she?_ "You are a beautiful girl, strong minded and independent, but this," with a large hand she indicated the pots and combs atop of the dresser table, "this is all that _they _care about…and so," Will heard the slight _click_ of the clasp and it closed behind her neck, "we are outnumbered, our reputations depend on _them_ and not us. It's a sad truth…but, you can take pride in the fact that you do look lovely."

There was no point in arguing, Will noted dully while staring at her alien image, slowly, her fingers moved along the smooth, cold surface of the pearls, the necklace that now in her eyes had gone on to lack any form of real magnificence. It was heavy where it hung, and reminded her of a dog collar, something that professed ownership, she swallowed as her grandmother's shadow continued to devour even more of her eerily white body, yes; that was it: a dog collar of this weekend's fattest pig.

* * *

In the bedroom next door, a transformation of quite another variety was taking place altogether, although, on this occasion the participants were far more willing.

It hadn't taken Irma very long to formulate a plan of attack; in fact, it had taken her a blissful five seconds to concoct the plan, and another thirteen to convince her accomplice, if you wish to become technical.

Over the years, Irma had bonded, rather quickly to the servant girl Emily. They both had a great deal in common, a love for romance, a dislike for Cornelia, it was a match made in heaven, you could say; and tonight seemed to be the perfect night to rekindle such a friendship.

She had convinced Emily to loan her her dull gray dress, and then to stay upstairs in her bedroom until the Ball was finished, so that the brunette could effectively mask her presence at the Ball. Oh, it had taken six seconds for her to explain her situation in her rapid, excited voice, and another six for Emily to mull it over, but the promise of a night off was too great for the girl to ignore (especially since she'd spent the majority of this day ironing one girl's dress), and so it wasn't long before she smiled and nodded, and yes, another second that was marked by a resounding yes.

The bodice had been a bit too tight and the skirt too long, but overall, Irma thought that she looked very—servantish? Which, currently was an incredibly good thing.

Emily had donned one of Irma's nightdresses and had come up behind her to adjust her bonnet over her wild curls.

"Do you really want to go to this Ball so badly…Miss?" Emily giggled in amusement at the sight of her employer's daughter attired in such a plain dress.

"No…I have a much greater purpose than that," she chirped happily, feeling utterly pleased with herself, a much greater purpose, in her mind meant dousing Cornelia with a bucket filled with ice.

"I can't think of many girls who would do this."

"And that is because society today lacks imagination. And besides, I think that tonight a handsome rake might spot me and fall madly in love, and then, he'll take me away on the back of his horse…" she laughed at Emily's bemused expression, "or perhaps I've been reading Jane Eyre too often."

That seemed to explain everything to Emily, who then took to sorting through Irma's pile of multicolored bonnets.

Ah, the Brontes weren't her inspiration for tonight though; no many would be shocked beyond a reasonable doubt to become enlightened to the fact that it had been Shakespeare who's provided the inspiration.

Romeo and Juliet, well, not quite, but it was her own version of a masked Ball.

* * *

Now, don't be foolish, of course Mrs. Potter (the self made Queen of all of Heatherfield), hadn't wanted to go to Susanna Vandom Hale Lair, (oh dear, had she really left off the Countess?)'s ridiculous _Ball_.

And, of course, it was a well known fact that no one with more than a thread's width of concern for their reputation would be there either. But certainly—after mulling it over, and watching diligently from her own Parlor window as hour after hour the lonely country road that linked their two houses remained sadly, devoid of guests—she had caved, after all, it seemed to be too great an opportunity to miss. And she certainly couldn't let Susanna suffer in that empty house of hers, at least without her eyes being present to capture her every sob.

Besides, the tale of Dublin's latest bumble that had resulted in the death of his very own child—was honestly running a bit old; sorry to say, and she'd need something fresh to discuss with the ladies this coming Sunday.

Once decided, she had sent her personal coachman Michael, out on an errand with an order to collect her two friends, and also with a hastily scribbled note informing them not to bother their pretty heads with the details of dress, seeing as there would be no one at this event who would be worth dressing up for.

She, herself had donned a shapeless green gown, with a matching green bonnet, she had worn this same dress more than once: on a church outing (when it was still new and fashionable), to a hospital (to visit an ailing sister, then, because it had appeared to be somber), and most recently, outside as she had tended to the gardens (a favorite pastime of hers as of late).

It had crossed to mind to forgo any jewelry for the night as well, but no, she still had a name to maintain, and although her dress would, quite frankly be an eye sore, Miss Susanna—too-many-last-names would be sure to remember just how well off her family was when she laid eyes on her brilliant diamond earrings and necklace.

Oh yes, she had decided that it was most beneficial to—at least the empty mouths of Heatherfield—herself to attend. And furthermore, it was Christian. Wasn't that what the bible said? To love thy neighbor?

Surprisingly, Joseph, her grandson had invited himself along for the excursion, odd, since the boy so rarely wanted to leave home, usually he chose instead to divulge himself in memorizing the tricks of the family's business. She wasn't about to question him, at nineteen he was a grown man of course, but even as she stared from in the corner with her two equally dowdily attired comrades, his presence nagged at her.

First of all, from the moment of his arrival he had lingered in the Foyer, as though—oh no—_waiting for someone_. Her tongue snapped to the roof of her mouth, causing her friends to stare at her for a moment. He most certainly wasn't intent on tarnishing his name with associating himself with that monstrous little midget!

Besides her, her company chattered on, blissfully unaware of the damage that the boy was inflicting upon them all, for if _her _name was ruined, what would become of all _theirs_?

"Have you tasted the biscuits?" One asked.

"Yes," she could feel the frown; even hear it in her words, "_stale_!"

"And _chicken_, at a Ball, really, does she intend for her guests to be ill?"

"What guests?"

Her thoughts and their conversation were both interrupted at once, seeing as Cornelia, flawlessly attired in a sky blue silk gown with fine white details floated over to their shadowy little corner. Her manners were fine to a fault, and as the women cooed on her fine complexion and glorious attire, she only smiled sweetly, and raised a dainty, gloved hand to her face to hide a pretty blush.

Modesty in young women was so rare these days.

Furthermore, Mrs. Potter could only shake her head (as she would later claim to have been in the practice of doing this for years) to wordlessly exclaim the displeasure that she still lamented upon: that Cornelia had been born into such a notorious family.

"Tell me dear, where is this fiancé of yours?" Miss Burke pried.

"Oh, well, I haven't seen him for the day."

"I hope that you know that it is certainly in a man's ways to be tardy." Put in Mrs. Kingsley, before cramming another biscuit in her mouth.

"But, what of your sisters child?" Mrs. Potter did perk up to hear the answer for this one.

Cornelia danced about the answer; and so it became obvious that even their own Mother knew what a disgrace they both were—she had forbidden their presence here. She looked once more to Joseph, feeling a wave of safety and gratitude swelling in her bosom, so he'd have to try again—really, she'd need to have a severe talking to with that boy. Man or no, he simply couldn't—

"Oh, but who is that over there?" And so eight eyes, all with similar intent, drifted across the empty dining room, past the frustrated looking band, and into the Foyer, where her grandson, to her astonishment, was no longer alone.

They watched, transfixed, as Joseph bent his dark head and bowed to a _her_, this _her_ however, didn't respond, turning up her pretty face instead in a manner that spoke absolute disgust, then _this her_ merely stomped past him before being halted by a loud, angry voice that could have come from the Master himself, then, only, then, did the girl drop to a brisk curtsy.

"Well, her manners certainly need work." Mrs. Kingsley stated immediately.

"Who is she though? Is she family Cornelia?" And six eyes turned to meet the owner of the fourth pair, whose baby blue's had yet to leave the sight in front of her. Furthermore, she looked absolutely stunned, her pretty mouth (just daubed with a coat of paint) hung open, and her eyes were as wide as saucers.

"I-I…" she began to stammer; then she cleared her throat.

"_No_, then?"

Still no answer, for in Cornelia's mind, to apocalypse was upon them all. Forget damnation and brimstone, the end of the world could very well be heralded with the arrival of her older sister…looking, (dare she say it?) _dazzling_ in a gorgeous white ball gown, complete with dark violet bows upon the shoulders and back. She admittedly, actually did look, very nice in white, even with her bright hair.

_This couldn't be happening._

She had found a way to outdo her…_again_!

Cornelia ignored the interested buzz that came from the ladies beside her, her mind was churning, half with fury—half with, she swallowed, jealousy. She had always been a bit resentful of her sister, merely because her birthright allowed her the privileges that Cornelia's otherwise superior looks and manners did not. It had never been fair—not to mention that at Finishing School, Will's overall rudeness and anti-social behavior had garnered her far more attention that Cornelia's diligence.

The anger was a full blown rage now, but tonight, tonight when _she_ was supposed to be the center of attention, when _she_ was supposed to be the only topic on anyone's lips, when all compliments were supposed to be directed towards her, she was forced to stand, with a smile (frowning was in bad taste you see) and listen as the women around her clucked on about Will's delicate bone structure.

Really, it was bad enough that no one seemed to be coming to her Ball, much less her wedding, her mother's fault no doubt, seeing as she had kept pushing both events up—people had been unprepared, oh yes, that had to be it—and then her fiancé, where was he? If he showed, then certainly, everyone would see just how smitten he was with her and then, hopefully, order would be restored.

If Will thought that she looked amazing she certainly had a fine way of hiding it, she immediately stiffened as Joseph Potter took her arm in his, leading her onto the dance floor, smiling at her even though all she did to encourage his look of awestruck adoration was scowl and frown.

"I have always admired redheads," Mrs. Potter began, "I know that the fashion is for fairer hair, but really, any redheaded girl that is able to look so lovely, is an obvious asset."

"Beautiful girl, really, dare I say Mary that your grandson is quite taken…"

Cornelia did frown this time, and felt that it was in her best interest to divulge with them the identity of their little _Helen Of Troy_. "That's my older sister, you do remember Wilhelmina."

Their look of shock mingled with revulsion might have been humorous had there been anything funny about Cornelia's spotlight being snatched away from her gloved hands. There wasn't, and so it wasn't.

"My, my," Mrs. Kingsley swallowed a mouthful of biscuit, "well, I never knew…"

"She has impeccably good breeding as you must know," to everyone's surprise, it was Mrs. Potter that brought forth this fact, "her father was the heir to an immense fortune before his passing."

"So she's an heiress as well," Miss Burke's beady eyes surveyed the scowling girl with a great deal more interest. "That's a fine match for your grand boy…"

This had to be a joke. Not bothering to excuse herself, Cornelia stormed past the women to the other side of the room, seating herself in a nearby chaise, and running her fingers along her (sadly) unmarked dancing card. She ignored Will with every fiber in her being, refusing to even give her a second glance for the hope that her disregard would somehow insult her more than anything else.

In all of her life Cornelia Hale had never possessed more humility than could fit into a thimble, now, fully immersed her stinging rage, everyone in this universe seemed intent on forcing more meekness into her thimble than would certainly fit.

How could she wear white? As though she were the bride! Cornelia tapped her foot impatiently as she watched Joseph Potter drag her obviously reluctant sister into his arms. She turned her eyes away as the couple began a waltz.

"Would you care for some champagne Miss," a sickeningly sweet voice tempted, holding the tray much too close to her face. Out of the corner of her eye she could just make out the bubbly amber liquid. Cornelia wasn't accustomed to drinking liquor, it was un-ladylike for a start, and she hated the taste. But tonight—she needed something. And without a glance of recognition at the grinning, disguised Irma, she snatched two glasses away from the tray.

Thank God that her wedding was tomorrow, she thought sullenly, before downing the first glass in nearly one gulp, because she couldn't stand to spend more than another night in this damned house.

* * *

Susanna Vandom was furious. And so she was upset that she was so angry, and hence she was even more strung out than she could even imagine. But why should she be? Everything was going according to plan; Cornelia would be gone in a matter of hours, safe, so very safe from that madman's clutches. She had succeeded, and so what if she was made to look like a blasted fool in the eyes of the general public? Some things were more important.

The practically empty dance floor and stacks of untouched food still stung though. She wrung her hands together, before threading them into her hair that she still hadn't managed to tame.

Jeffery had clamored upstairs into his bedroom a while ago, the "stress" he claimed, was terrible for his complexion—he had later suggested a act that would heal his complexion, and well as hers—but the look upon her pasty face had sent him running.

Again, she scanned the ball room, catching a brief glimpse of Will, who honestly looked very nice, she noted, watching as her daughter was spun around the dance floor by that charming Joseph boy; although she wouldn't admit that to the evil dog eared heifer that was even at this moment standing next to her, smoking her pipe with an air of absolute fulfillment.

"I have to say Susanna." She began, although the brunette did her best to simply ignore her, "had I known what a small gathering would have been here tonight, I would have never bothered to have Wilhelmina attend. Although…" she indicated the troubled old mules that were crowded into a dark corner of the room, their eyes following the young couple, "…with those three noting how magnificent she looks, I must say it will do her some good."

The smell of tobacco made her queasy. Her head ached, her feet throbbed, God she needed a rest, and after all of this was finished, she'd still have to haul Irma and Will across the ocean to see the Vatican. She sighed softly, such were the ways of a mother, she suspected, although all the other mothers she knew never seemed to be so hassled.

"If Wilhelmina asks, I've decided to turn in. It's as dull as tombs down here, and Jamestown did take a toll on me." _She won't ask_, Susanna snapped inwardly, wishing that she had the strength to initiate an argument; she needed someone to take this out on—a target, as it were, and for once she was grateful for Will's terrible manners, in fact she took a sense of pride in her daughter's unconcern where her grandmother was concerned.

Out of the corner of her eye she watched as Cornelia, frowning heavily swallowed a mouthful of champagne, and then reached for more from an oddly euphoric looking servant…oh Lord, what was she thinking? That she'd be zig-zagging for her wedding ceremony?

She took a steady step forward, only to hang back, really, truly, she didn't have the energy. If Cornelia was upset about the state of her Engagement Ball, then who could blame her? Heaven knew that she desired some liquor herself, although in her mind she saw only Vodka…heavily iced.

Besides, she was falling asleep on her feet, it wouldn't do to collapse atop of the dance floor, no, that would ruin everything—oh what was she saying? It was already ruined.

Haylin sped past her in a fit of giggles, she watched, dully from the corner of her eye as her grandmother trailed behind her, loudly chastising her in Chinese for obviously wearing a dress that wasn't hers…rather, for wearing Cornelia's wedding dress.

Cornelia didn't shriek or stir, instead she watched in hopeless resignation as the young raven haired girl pulled one of the young band members from out of his seat and engaged him, quite roughly, in a heated waltz.

Rather, _now_, it was all ruined. And she slumped like a bag of porridge against the doorframe, sincerely wishing that she had joined a convent in her youth.

"My lady?" Slowly, Susanna turned around, only to be overtaken by a fresh wave of frustration. "Taranah," she gave little more than a glance at the smiling girl, "look, I'm not paying you for any of your services. My family has been absolutely cordial to you, and you haven't lifted a finger to help any of us. I had to plan this entire wedding myself, as well as this Ball."

She pointed to the near bare room, "do you see this? Absolute disaster." She couldn't continue, so she sighed heavily instead.

"I know," Taranah began, sounding genuinely sympathetic, "I apologize, and no, I don't expect payment. I have just been in such poor health as of late…I fear that…that it might be the same affliction that took my dear Mother." She sniffled with mock pain, trying her best not to recall the face of her obese mother as she lay sprawled upon her failing bed.

"Oh…" Susanna seemed to buy it, if only momentarily. "Well, then just tell your agency that I won't be hiring from them again…and I wish you the best of health."

Right.

Taranee reached inside of the pockets of the redhead's apron and retrieved the long vial, filled to the brim with her brandy, pill solution. "I had heard that you lost this…" she waved it temptingly before the woman's nose and as a result, her deep amethyst eyes followed the concoction as though it were a pendulum, before snatching it away and downing the entire thing in one massive sig.

"Thank God, where did you find it?"

"Err…upstairs, it was in one of those fabric books that you showed me."

The brunette nodded hastily, and honestly, Taranee believed that she could have told her that she'd yanked it out of Lucifer's ass and she would have believed her.

"Thank you, really," she groaned with contentment, practically behaving like a well fed cat.

"It was nothing," she returned, moving away to her post for the night, in a secluded corner, so as to study her final stage of this plan. "Nothing at all."

* * *

Walking was the worst thing about the satin slippers Will decided. Well, no, dancing had been the worst thing, but really the truth was that most of her hatred for the event hadn't been because of her foot wear, but because of her partner.

True to form her kept letting his hands "slip" downwards, and more than once she'd had to stomp on his toes to make him remove his dirty hands from her—parts. Well, she supposed that there was one upside to the shoes; they were obviously made for stamping.

He'd grown tired of spinning her around after twelve too many dances, and to Will's utter dismay, when she at last imagined that he might have grown tired of her lack of conversation, eye contact or interest, he'd grabbed her arm, two glasses of wine (all of the champagne had mysteriously vanished) and proceeded to pull her outside, onto the awaiting verandah.

She would have loved to tell him exactly what she thought about spending some alone time with him, but she couldn't, her voice was gone, she'd noticed that when she'd been trying to tell him to take his grimy hand off of her posterior…why did he give her wine any way? Her throat had swollen so much now that it was exceeding painful for her to even attempt swallowing.

Will had been desperate then, and so had thrown a pitiful pleading look across the hyperactive dark haired girl doing jumping jacks on the dance floor to her sister, but Cornelia looked more miserable than she did presently, not to mention she was rocking from side to side while clinging an empty glass in her hand. Never mind her then, she leaned towards the door to looked at her Mother, who looked tipsy as well, really, she was stumbling around on her feet, and would have collapsed had it not been for that wedding woman, who whispered something to her mother before pulling her away, Will imagined that she was being led to bed.

Outside the night was freezing, the wind seemed ecstatic tonight however, and it greet Will with a number of bites and slaps, before finally running away when it noticed that she was already chilled to her marrow.

Behind her the band had ceased playing, there were no dancers, and she was actually a bit surprised that they hadn't stopped earlier. The moon was half out tonight as well, but it was practically cloudless, even though she couldn't spot any stars.

Will sneezed suddenly, and Joseph smirked, ever the thoughtful gentleman, he shrugged out of his dark jacket and draped the material about her shivering shoulders, she nearly gagged from the slight smell of his aroma, but instead she shrugged out of the jacket and tossed it, with complete distain onto her mother's petunias, brown and dry due to the summer heat, even as they peered up at them from beneath the whitewashed rail.

"You don't need to be that way," he chided; his voice had always reminded Will of oil, slippery and sleek, he was so careful with everything especially his pronunciation.

She raised her shoulders to show that she didn't care, and lowered her gaze into her glass; she noticed that he'd already drained his.

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

Again no answer, even if her throat hadn't been ailing her, she doubted that she would have initiated talk with him anyway. His eyes stared right at her, and she hated it, she could feel as he racked over her in her stupid dress, feeling more and more foolish when his eyes lingered on the neckline. Futilely, Will placed the wine onto the banister and she folded her arms in front of her chest, glaring back.

"You're a beautiful girl you know." Right, of course she was. She rolled her eyes and looked away, staring unseeing at the shadows in the trees that surrounded their house.

"I mean it," he was close now, she could feel the heat from his breath on her face, it burned, and so she stepped further away, stumbling on the skirt of her dress in the process, but he caught her before she fell.

She stared at him for a brief moment, assessing his possessive grip on her arm, but then the dizziness overcame her and she doubled over, holding onto the railings as she waited for the discomfort to subside, but he was not to be so patient.

He pulled, dragged and shoved her into the darkness, away from the doors and windows that would have allowed the others in the room to see what he was planning.

"I want you." He stated, as though she should be immensely pleased with that fact.

She groaned, feeling cold, feeling miserable, hating him and his strong French cologne and wishing to God that he'd get off of her.

No such luck.

His mouth was on hers in a second, and his tongue was soon pushing its way into her mouth, she squirmed against him, smacking him hard in the chest and then watching as he staggered backwards a full two steps, taking a slight contentment in the fact that she seemed to have knocked the breath out of him.

This was just like the last time—but not like the conversation—like the last Ball, except there was no salvation now, would he honestly get his way?

"Don't touch me," she managed to whisper. "I swear Joseph I'll scream."

"Right," He sauntered closer, watching her with a type of arrogance that she knew only he could muster. "Now who told you that I wouldn't like that?"

He kissed her again before she had time to duck away; he was taller, stronger and overall just bigger than she was, and easily, he had her cornered. She could feel parts of him; disgusting parts of him, prodding against her stomach, his hands were all over her now, moving like snakes over her chest, clasping her bosom…

A shriek lay on her lips, but it wouldn't come…

…her head throbbed with the fear and the illness, she couldn't tell which was which, she was flailing now, that stubbornness refusing to die out in her, her grabbed her arms and held them above her head, his mouth was on her neck, suckling, biting, she couldn't scream—

"Why the fuss? It's not like you're not already giving it to _him_!"

She kicked instead.

Call it fate, call it damned luck at the cobbler not being able to find the softer soles that would have made the slippers more comfortable, her foot collided with his groin with a sickening _thud_, and in the next instant he was on the floor writhing in pain.

Will slumped to the ground, understandably exhausted, before the revulsion took over and she reached for her shoe, and whacked him over the head a good dozen times with the heel.

"Bastard." She muttered, scrambling to her feet to reach for her glass of wine. Then she tossed the entire thing on top of him, feeling nearly overjoyed when he hissed at the alcohol burning his wounds.

It did seem however that his pride hurt far more than the cuts on his face did, for at that moment he shrieked, "I suppose then that I really shouldn't be surprised. Blood will tell after all. Your sister runs around with stable boys and your mother…well, she runs with the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker."

She stared at his pathetic form for a long time, even as he struggled to his feet spewing all manners of other blasphemies at her. He clamored inside then, straight into the arms of his doting grandmother, who wasted no time in cuddling her "poor baby".

It took a while longer for Will to calm herself, for she felt sicker than ever before, and now, there was a sensation of revulsion sliding over her skin; even when she had cleared her mind, her heart was still terribly excited.

_Caleb_…she coughed suddenly. She needed to see him.

Not wanting to pass through Joseph's hordes of partisans, she clamored over the limestone rail, and then landed, quite uncomfortably on those same half dead petunias.

She was more certain than ever now, she had no choice—he was the only man she could ever consider—_finally_, she did find a way to swallow—with. And Joseph had almost stolen it, she was still shivering from the aftershock of the attack, and yes, she did understand that the haste at which she was moving through the night with was born of her panic and confusion, but again, she didn't care.

She needed to feel his arms, his mouth, his touch, he'd wash away these horrible feelings, and then he'd take her away from this horrible place.

She knew it then, in her heart of hearts, that he wouldn't fail her.

* * *

**Author:** Yet again, I had to split another chapter into two.

When I posted chapter 18, I don't think that the email alerts were functioning, and so, as a result, most of you didn't know that I had updated. I'm not waiting for you guys to read it…sorry, but I've got to hustle.

The thing is for a long time I was upset with myself from messing up Cornelia's characterization—you know, making her so petty and vain, I did want her to have some depth, but then I saw season two, what am I saying, she'll probably rot. Why? N is for Narcissist.

You know what I've always hated? Makeover stories or movies, I never ever took _to The Princess Diaries_, because as a frumpy girl, I think that I look hot. My lack of designer labels and "sleek, shiny" hair has never stopped me from getting a boyfriend, because unlike what people will have you believe your attractiveness is not based on how much money you spending plucking your eyebrows. And honestly, the worst thing about W.I.T.C.H right now, is just that the writers are instilling these values into their audience, you know what that means right? Another generation of Paris Hiltons and pantiless Britney Spears. Ah well, not my place to save the world from ignorance.

So no, Will didn't love her make-over, and hell Caleb won't melt into a puddle at the sight of her all glimmered up. You're pretty just the way you are damn it. And don't let Allure Magazine tell you otherwise.

The only reason I did this was to make Cornelia jealous so that she'd get drunk. You'll see why soon enough.

Review my frumpies!


	20. Chapter 20

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

Chapter Twenty

There are stories that are whispered into the ears of children by night, and only by night, because daytime lacks the—ambience, if you will, that pours fear and adrenaline into the hearts of the youth. You see, and perhaps in some ways, this is one of those stories as well—_the beginning of darkness_. Darkness you see, is the cape of the devil, dear Lucifer himself, now no longer the morning star—hidden in his blanket of shadows—oh now, you did not really believe that it was God who made the night? Why would God, who promises safety and eternal happiness, drench his children in the perpetual darkness? No, no, darkness is all the devil's doing, he who pushes his clothing upwards through the cracks in Hell's ceiling, until they coat the heavens that he can no longer touch with his own bone white fingers, until the children of Mother Earth whimper and cry, staring blindly at the gloom—waiting, just waiting…

Yet—he's waiting too.

* * *

It had been a total of six days, twenty hours and forty-nine minutes, since Taranee had arrived in this hell hole. And yes, she was certain that these figures were correct, for on the second day, she had taken to counting off the numbers as a past-time—and of course, since then, she had endured the sensation of having her bowels trampled, her mind whitewashed and her entire awareness falter about her—but now, right now, give or take a few minutes or two—it would all be over.

And so, she could couldn't resist a smirk, later a grin, even as she dragged the semi-unconscious, very heavy body of Susanna Vandom-Hale-Lair—wait, did she forget the title? Never mind, she decided, titles and such things did not matter to people of her reputation—heaving another breath she adjusted the limp body of her "captive" atop of her shoulder, and carefully maneuvered the door to the servant's quarter's open, a place that quite luckily, she had discovered during her search for arsenic, lemon grass and or gun powder in the hours of Thursday.

The servants had long filed out of the room; she had heard the obnoxious order earlier today that they do so, and, smirking then too, she had been immensely grateful for this woman's interference—for once.

Through the darkness she staggered, the weight of her self-inflicted ward was nearly too much for her to bear, although, it was definitely too much for her to move successfully, (Taranee winced again as another earthen jug fell to the floor), now, now, come on—she was certain that there should be a bench here—oh yes, sparks clouded her vision as her shin collided with the wood in the corner, _there it was_.

Swearing under her breath, Taranee loosened her grip on the woman's waist and then sighed in absolute gratification, as the pain in her shoulders eased, the was a disturbing thud when Susanna's skull collided with the bench, but after hearing the muffled groan that fell from her lips seconds afterwards, the dark girl decided that she was no worse for wear.

And besides, she ran her hand along her still shell-shocked stomach, a concussion would be the least that she could do.

Somewhere in the dead of night the owl called, and superstitious to her very marrow—she automatically felt her ears straining for sounds, any sounds. She was not disappointed, her frantic mind did manage to pick up some footsteps and a pair of voices from outside—undoubtedly some revilers going for a moonlight stroll, yes, perhaps it was that little red haired girl and her dance partner. It didn't matter; she'd need to hurry before she was found out.

Hastily, Taranee reached into the pockets of her dress, flinching as she felt the lace and bows—_just a few more minutes_—and retrieved a small bottle of smelling salts, one that she had managed to buy off of that Chinese woman, who had had given it to her for, as she had so eloquently phrased it, "special wedding bargain discount price".

Her upper body curved gently through the darkness, and, crouched in the most uncomfortable position, she fumbled around for several moments before bumping into Susanna's slightly damp—mouth, no—eyes, oh yes, yes, nose. And then, after pulling out the cork with her two front teeth, Taranee unceremoniously pushed the bottle up one nostril, before pressing the other one shut with her index finger.

Oh yes, yes, she was very, very much aware of the so-called "proper" interrogation techniques, she had used them several times in her own career as a bounty hunter, there was the familiarization, the friendliness, the false camaraderie that one could later exploit—of course she knew of these things, but in the darkness, no one was peering over her shoulder to ensure that she was following protocol, and honestly, she couldn't give half a horse's ass if tomorrow Susanna awakened and remembered every vivid detail.

Six days, twenty hours and fifty-three minutes in this hell does that to you—after all.

"Where's Phobos?" she whispered carefully, trying to discern the fallen woman's reaction even through the night. She felt the fallen countess shift slightly, before groaning in a small voice. Impatience scratched at her skin—she clicked her tongue decisively, and then, to hurry the awakening process along, she slapped the woman several times across each cheek.

"…not…here…"

"Not here? Then where?"

"…my baby…"

Babies? Her children? Those brats? "What does Phobos care about your children," and then slowly, like oil moving along a dry patch of road, a sickening thought shook her mind and she swallowed before asking, "Are you with his child?"

"Yes, my child…coming for them…I have to take, my baby away."

"All right. You can take your baby as far away as you'd like," now, she felt rather…_sinister_, there was no doubt in her mind that her mixture of brandy and pills was not a concoction that was even remotely comparable to anything that was spawned from a wet nurse…she chewed on her bottom lip.

"Where is Phobos?"

"Coming for my baby…" suddenly her hands were fastened atop of Taranee's shoulders, and her nails were digging into the skin on her upper back, "Stop him…" she breathed.

"So you _don't _know where he is?"

"The others—and my baby."

"Calm down," she pried the woman's pale arms away, "look, I'll help you get…your baby to safety. And the others?" The wheels in her mind churned, she could feel it, the excitement, infecting each and every limb of her body, "oh yes the other three…they'll be in danger as well…I'll take care of them."

Her mouth was practically watering by the time Susanna sleepily muttered her last sentence.

"My babies…"

"I know," she raised herself to her feet, "It'll be all right. I promise. You stay here—I have a plan."

* * *

The Honorable Baron Luke De Duckriver, I'll have you recall both the honorable _and_ the Duke! Heard a great clatter downstairs, a clatter and footsteps, voices, oh yes those too. Alas…he jumped, as visions of his time spend defending the great land that is Britain from Spanish rule danced through his mind in a series of wild shapes and colors. And he'd succeeded…oh but Henry, that poor, poor man! He'd named his pistol after him, you know, after all his work, carrying the bastard on his back! For fifty miles…in the pouring monsoon of India. Only to have him die as soon as he's reached the border to Hong Kong.

The duke wiped a tear from his wrinkled eye. _Good times_.

There it was again…the voices, now accompanied by the war drums, beating strangely out of time—well, how in God's name was he to march to that? Never mind, he wasn't one of those unlearned Yankees, there was strong British blood in his veins! And by God those in the King's Royal army knew how to march.

One, forty—thirteen? No, no, four…fifty nine! Jolly good, now he had it! Marching to vanquish those heathens he was…for his reward lay in heaven, Jesus was a Brit you know, and he would reward all those who murdered on his behalf.

"Onwards christen soldiers, marching as to war, with the cross of…holy hell!" Several eyes had turned to face the _duke_ as he had swaggered inside, yes, still un-medicated. There she was, as clear as the nose on his face, on the opposite side of the room, his arch nemesis—the balloon woman, he'd know that dress anywhere.

It was up to him to stop her! He'd let her go in the first place after all, it was he who had taken pity on her pathetic form at the battle for St. Petersburg. And now, she dared show up at _his_ celebratory ball! That harlot!

Unsheathing his sword (wife's walking cane), Edward (named for another fallen victim, this time at the battle at Waterloo). The Duke moved forward, and before any band member, grandchild, servant or gossipy old toad could stop him, he had plunged (whacked) Mrs. Potter (the balloon woman) with—Edward, breaking the metal hoop in her skirt and sending her sprawling onto the floor, her dearest grandson, still held in her arms.

"I, have vanquished you witch! Hear the name Duckriver and let your heart be filled with terror!"

"What in the blue hell!"

"Terror!" he bellowed, before darting off to a secluded corner in the Dining Room—now, time for his much anticipated celebration—oh wait, no, the cold hearted Jezebel was still alive, and talking, yes, yes, he could hear the words as the fell from her satanic mouth, "I am never coming near these people again! Really they are like a sanitarium! That girl nearly cripples my Joseph for the second time mind you…and, and now_ this_! Susanna!"

"Oh, don't" cooed another, reaching for her fallen comrade, well at least the heathens respected good sportsmanship, without thinking, he burst into applause, "let's just go—I cannot wait to be rid of this place!"

"I agree," nodded another, and so all three women, with a whimpering young lad—a pansy by any good Duke's accounts, trailing behind.

Ah, yes, now he could continue with his celebration, he beckoned the young girl cradling several wine glasses atop of a tray closer, "I want some wine lassie, to sweeten my tongue!"

"Oh get away Granfath—err I mean, sir, this isn't for you." She smiled sweetly, so mannerly, she must be British, he decided at once. And so he watched her next motions, now with a strange fascination as she pranced over to a blonde lady in a massive blue dress that very nearly swallowed her up whole, and pressed a glass into her hand—the lady promptly refused, and then, struggling to her feet, she staggered from the room.

"On we march to battle…err…with the church of God, hear our belies roar! Onward," he burst into song, earning a few strange looks from the marching band. "Oh, you young people! Why, when I was your age I had already led the French Revolution!"

* * *

The breath of the soft moon had already swept across the shadowy landscape by the time that Will had arrived at the cottage door. Now, fragments of silver, nearly white, moonbeams cut across the earthen floor, creating a quilt of light and darkness, a cover for the silence that haunted the gardens.

Her heart was jumping in her chest, and this time it wasn't at all due to the four hundred meter dash that she had only just completed, no, it was from nervousness, from excitement—she was literally standing on the threshold on her future—and she had forgotten the keys.

No, honestly, in her haste to get here, she had left the keys upstairs in her bedroom—her eyes burned her throat scratched, her head, only just having realized that she'd been _running_, began to throb painfully, and the romance of the night evaporated with another long breath of the moon.

No, no—she couldn't be like that, she sniffed, coughed a bit and then raised a heavy, hopeful, shivery hand to test the knob—_open_. Really, it wasn't locked!

Perhaps this was fate's way of making amends…nevertheless, in her mind she was already decided for she had locked those hopes and fears deep inside of her heart, and tied them securely with a string of obstinacy. The yawn of darkness would swallow her whole, savor her inhibitions, and so she stepped inside.

* * *

The gown of the moon was corpulent tonight; it seemed heavier than the usual silk, much more burdensome. Tonight it felt like armor, heavy, confining, as though it had been weaved from leaden strands of silver. Trouble was etched into this light, and when those beams grazed his skin he nearly staggered with the weight.

It doesn't take much to level one's self esteem—a few carefully muttered words, accompanied of course by stinging sarcasm, or maybe some laughter—well, actually, he would have preferred it, if she had laughed. Then he would have been assured of his idiocy, but she hadn't—no, instead she had complied, at least momentarily, and she had allowed him to drown in her taste completely, a taste that even now, he still couldn't get out of his mouth.

It was her fault in any case—if only she had listened to him, for once, all he'd need was a few seconds to—to what? What would be the chances that she'd accept him? Minimal, practically invisible…

Why was he about to tell her again? Oh yes, love. Blasted word, like a goddamned sickness infecting his mind and body, love? Really, at his age, and he still couldn't tell the difference between lust and genuine affection.

And if at his age he could…well then, that was a burden of an entirely different load. He needed a drink, preferably at a brothel. Something to get his mind off of her…

* * *

Caleb raised a hand to massage his sore neck; he'd been sitting in this same awkward position, with his elbows digging into his legs, for the past few hours. Nothing, truly had convinced him to move as of yet.

He wasn't sad; men weren't prone to the same bouts of depression as women. For their hearts weren't as fickle. And their minds weren't as romantic. So no, he was angry, for anger was a perfectly acceptable emotion. Anger, could be used to make today's fool hardiness seem a great deal less embarrassing, anger could make him feel completely justified in his confessions and…it helped to soften her subsequent rejection.

And besides, staying here in the near darkness, stewing selfishly in his rage was damn near comforting.

Taranee would potentially kill him tomorrow—or tonight if she got the opportunity…he'd missed the Ball he figured, he couldn't really see himself attending that wedding either…

* * *

He heard the soft click of his door; it rang out in the silence like a gunshot, so finally inspiration had struck. Quietly, instinctively he edged towards to trunk, he'd been half way there before the memory returned to him, Taranee had his pistol, she'd left him with a pocketknife for situations such as these…wonderful, that woman.

He rose to his feet, bracing his mind against the stiffness in his joints. He paced over to the wall and pressed his back against it, waiting, with every fiber in his body screaming, waiting for the intruder.

"Caleb?" suddenly, the screams were from an entirely different reason, it took all of a second for her presence to gnaw at his insides, drawing out his emotions, calling to arms that same dirty word.

"Will?" he breathed, and his heart immediately fled at the prospect, _bite the bullet_, he told his racing pulse, just let her go. "What are you doing here?" His mouth was already dry, and he hadn't even looked at her yet…

"I-I," her footsteps echoed upwards, they sounded heavy upon the wooden stairs; "I changed my mind."

Her voice was different, lower, deeper, it sounded as though it was trapped beneath something unfathomable—something elephantine. And she looked…_different _as well. She was clad in an enormous gown, one that seemed impossibly white, even in contrast to her pale skin. Her hair, which usually fell limply upon her forehead, or could be seen wrapped casually about her fingers, was now tied and pinned and knotted at the back of her head—perhaps _different_ was too weak a word.

She looked away from his face, and it was only then that he noticed that he was staring, he looked away as well, exhuming his voice from the base of his ribs, "You look," he paused, searching for something to describe her transformation…

"Don't laugh." A smile, he could feel it, he could imagine how it might light up her pretty face, how her dark brown eyes might shine and…no, not again. "You look different." He concluded, and she seemed satisfied.

Silence, which finally begat awkwardness, since neither seemed to know what to say. His own muteness was due to his racing heart, hers due to an authentic ignorance of how to handle this.

"I needed to see you," she managed finally; her voice was nearly a whisper, which, he realized, frightened him. He hated sickness…

She drew closer to him, and to his credit his stayed still, waiting for her words, listening for her footfalls. "I wanted you to know, that I've changed my mind…about today, and about us and I…don't honestly know how to say this…"

Caleb could feel the incredible heat radiating from her small form, yet, she was shivering—"Will, you shouldn't be here," for the best, he pressed, she deserved better, more than the lies and heartache that he could offer her…

But she shook her head, "no, don't. I was…scared, I suppose, but I'm not anymore—not really, and I…suppose that I can't really stop thinking about you either."

Fever, she had a fever. She had a fever and was running around in the middle of the freezing cold night. "You're unwell, you should be in bed."

"W-What?"

"You have a fever," he pressed his hand against her neck for emphasis, a mistake he noted when she gasped at the contact, so he recoiled immediately.

Discomfort. At least on his part, because she seemed perfectly happy to continue.

"I know…but…it's not important." She reached for his hand, carefully twining her freezing palms into his. "I came to see you…I don't know, I thought that you might want to see me."

Something inside of him gave-way, melted into liquid warmth that pooled in the recesses of his stomach. "Are you going to listen this time?"

"Yes," she whispered, and now he did see her smile, although it didn't have the desired effect…in fact, and he'd only just realized it, but he wasn't surrounded by her aroma of spices, now she smelt vaguely like…flowers. He pulled her towards the bed where they both sat and he disentangled their hands.

"What's wrong?" She asked.

"Nothing…about this is simple. You and I…we…"

"Is that what you're worried about? I know that it might be hard, but I've already thought it through, you can just ask my mother, I'm sure that she won't force you to marry Cornelia if…never mind…we could just leave tonight."

"No, Will, look you said that you'd listen."

"I did," she defended, scrunching up her nose in protest, "I am listening, you see it's all very simple…"

"Why, won't you…"

"Don't say it," she interjected, before deciding that she couldn't bear to hear the rest of this speech. She charily folded her hands in her lap, and he watched, transfixed as she pulled at each finger, "please don't."

Say what? She couldn't possibly know. Yet the tone of her voice made him feel as though he'd wronged her greatly—he draped an arm about her shoulders, intending to give her at least the smallest bit of comfort, drawing her close, finding a ridiculous amount of pleasure from her proximity. "What happened to your hands?"

Bruises, dark purple marks that would undoubtedly become even more dark and purple upon the morrow were scattered along her wrists. He'd expected some foolish answer, perhaps that she'd worn the sleeves of her gown too tightly, maybe she'd burnt herself at breakfast, but instead she raised her shoulders wordlessly, and tried, in vain to hide her hands from him.

By now the splotches of pink and red that were littered across her chest and neck had captured his attention—"what happened Will?" His tone was firm, solid, despite the worry mingled with…impatience definitely, swimming along in his veins, after all, _she hadn't done that to herself_. "Did someone do this to you?"

"No…"

"Look at me," he held her chin between his fingers, "_tell _me…"

"It was no one…he's gone now," she sniffled, as though that signaled the end of the conversation.

"Who's _he_?"

"It…" she swallowed, "what were you going to tell me?"

Right, he struggled to withhold that frustration nipping at the frayed edges of his mind. "You…worry me, you know."

"Why?"

Now, it was his turn to be silent. "You're always getting hurt."

It was as good as a confession as she was going to receive from him now—regardless, there was still a large amount of satisfaction to be derived from the fact that he cared enough about her to…_notice_…I filled her body with a delicious heat, so she began, "I came here tonight—because, I realized…that I-I am really…_fond_ of you," the color in her cheeks had drained away, fallen in fact to stimulate her racing heart, "and…I thought, well I thought that maybe tonight I could find some way to…um…seduce you. Although," a breathy laugh, "I'm fairly certain that I won't be good at it."

He had to remind himself to breathe…and then to stop staring. She hadn't just said that, no, no, this was simply another one of his outlandish fantasies, caused, largely by a lack of sleep.

"You don't mean that." He stated, what he really meant was that she couldn't—she just couldn't. He peeled his arm away.

"I-I'm not nervous." At that very moment her face darkened to the color of her hair.

He didn't seem to hear her, for his entire world had blurred into a confusing mixture of dreams and this one girl—this wonderful, beautiful woman, that was so…perfect, untainted, too much, far too much for him to even dream about. He couldn't take that from her, how dare he even consider it.

"You don't mean that." He repeated, this time staring into her eyes, avoiding the tenderness that she held there at all costs.

"Why wouldn't I?" She turned to face him, "You mean a lot to me…and I wanted to…I don't know…"

"We can't," _I won't_, he anticipated the why, and countered before she could ask, "it's because things are so…complicated. You don't know me."

"I know enough," She crept closer, intending to kiss him, but he began to speak again, "things aren't as simple as you think, I'm not good for you…and you won't be able to take this back."

"I know," her russet brows knitted together, and she tried to reach for his hand, but he moved it, and then moved himself over to the other side of his room, "but I wouldn't want to."

"You're too young."

"I'm older than Cornelia."

"You see, that's just it. You don't understand…and…"

"Is that it?" His rejection, for that was obviously what this was, was damn near insulting, "is this because of her?" So then, that was all there was, she'd embarrassed herself for nothing…

There was no fairytale for her, no Prince on white horse and no Princess in a golden gown, just this—this mass of filthy feelings that caused her more pain than she had ever known. The hurt of a broken heart, mingled with the agony of shattered hopes and dreams.

Tears stung the back of her eyes, and again her throat clogged shut, she ignored the ache, desperate to withhold them. _She wouldn't cry_. "Fine, I can see that you want me to beg for you, but I won't." She struggled to her feet, noticing then that she was missing a shoe, "If you want her, then by all means, take her."

And then she walked away, the pounding in her head growing more and more excruciating with each intense step. By the time she'd decided to face him again, the tears had broken through the glass cage that she'd trapped them in. "You are the most confusing man that I have ever met…one minute you…and then…"

She needed to hear this, she needed to feel this, she'd get over it—_Oh God_, "Will don't cry."

"I'm not crying…" she sniffled unconvincingly, "it's this damn disease, it makes my eyes…water and…"

"It's not the disease." Drawn to her like a moth to a flame, he stopped just short of her quivering form, determined to convince her, "trust me. Believe me Will that I know what best for you. And I'm telling you that I'm not it."

"You don't know that." Will stared at the hem of her skirt…

"I think that I do."

She wanted to shake her head, to slap him, to kick him, to fight him on this stupid decision, to somehow convince him that he was wrong, but she didn't know how and so she remained quiet, sniffling, sputtering, pathetic.

She'd fallen hard, she'd fallen fast, and of course now, she was too disorientated to pick herself back up.

"This is the last time that we're saying good bye." He stated, while she tried to convince herself to descend the stairs, "you'll see why soon enough."

"If I had said yes then," she brushed away a hot tear from her cheek, feeling the urge to scream when only seconds later another one took its place. "Today, I mean, under the tree—what would have happened?"

"I don't know," he admitted, God, but she was beautiful when she cried. He was staring again, and this time he couldn't force himself to look away. The tears were washing away the powders on her face; it was like a mask, falling apart. "I was…insane this morning," he concluded.

Will was staring at him strangely as though he had grown another head and even…a tail, then she asked, in a breathless voice that was overflowing with wonder, "About me?"

"Probably," And then her hands were in his again, although he wasn't entirely certain on how it had gotten there. Once again, he watched, transfixed as kissed those hands, as she ran her fingers along the calluses there, it took every once of conviction that he possessed for him to discontinue the contact.

Then there was silence, horrendous silence; punctuated only by breathing and heartbeats, "then why? Why are you doing this?"

"Because," he touched the side of her face, _for the last time_, he snapped at his outraged conscience, "Sometimes, the right thing to do isn't what we want to do, but," he traced the soft lines of her cheeks, her chin; then he dropped his arm before his hand could make it to the hills of her lips, for that would have been of course, his undoing, "but we do it anyway."

And before she could question him again, "I see that now. And I am not going to change my mind."

It was she who released his hands this time, he knew that. And it was she who left him only moments after, finally able to accept his refusal, but only after calling him an idiot a good seven times. He had to say that he agreed. He mutely watched her back as it drifted down the stairs, and he felt the sudden emptiness, even sadness, that engulfed him. It seemed that she had taken the part of his heart that allowed it to be so resolute.

* * *

The moon was significantly less romantic when your line of vision is clouded with tears. Yes, so she was crying again. And again, she hated it. And she was sick of crying and sick of hating it, which of course led to frustration and then more tears. Once, she had been a sensible girl, but now she had been transformed into this slobbering, blubbering wreck. Even Irma didn't cry this much she was certain.

But then again, Irma hadn't had her heart broken, over and over again.

Will decided that she was pathetic, yes, yes, she was a jackass of the lowest pedigree…and it wasn't even his fault. It was her fault for ever thinking, believing—trusting.

No, she didn't want to go back home—she was in far too much pain to make it back there in one decent piece anyway. And with these tears and this misery, that would lead to foolish questions from her family that she didn't have answers for—and she couldn't stop herself from crying anyways.

Deciding that the barn was as good a refuge as any, she attempted to pry the door open, but, that, quite sadly was locked. This was the one that was locked! In her dissatisfaction she kicked the damn door, hurting her foot and swearing to the best of her ability, directing her words and anger to anything that could understand her.

He'd kissed her here…

Oh God, she fell to the ground, muddying her dress, hurting her knee. Crying again, drowning in a river of sorrow and heartache until, finally, with her throat rubbed raw from sobs and her eyes numb from tears, she could cry no more.

She prayed that the noises issuing from her throat hadn't managed to scale the walls of the cottage and climb into his window…however, considering her luck, they probably had.

Her hair had fallen loose due to her running and kicking, and those seventeen hairpins dangled precariously from the edges of her rumpled curls. She was a mess, even by her standards.

_He hadn't even kissed her good-bye. _

She hadn't wanted him to! _No?_ God no, he was a selfish bastard! As though he knew what she wanted! Best for her, really, why she should go right up there and…and…_Well, of course he doesn't know, you don't even know yourself._ Oh shut up.

The cold mud pinched her legs, so she shifted her position.

Why couldn't they ever agree on this at the same time? It was too late now, within hours he and Cornelia would be—and she'd be, Will, still poor little Will, who would now most definitely die alone.

Even her cats might desert her…

There was no use in sitting out here, even at the depths of misery she didn't deserve—_horse droppings_.

If she went in through the back she could avoid Irma…who was probably undoubtedly hidden under a table in the Dining Room.

Will tried to tell herself, (as she tottered upwards, climbing from her muddy throne) that everything would work itself out, that she would survive, and it was no use making herself mad over—him.

Him, he—Caleb would be gone tomorrow, and her life would still go on.

_Without him._

Over the past few days she had drowned, she had burned and she had broken. Now, she was stronger, _yes stronger_, she would find her new self inside of those soggy ashes and...and she'd be damned if she was ever caught crying like this again.

* * *

The moon is a mistress, a lantern to all evil, and don't you for even a second think that she's not intentional.

Foolish, really, to convince herself that _she_ was safe, that _she _could escape him once he'd decided that it was she that he wanted. For he was like the moon in her mannerisms as well as her servant, simply because he couldn't be seen didn't mean that he wasn't there.

If he'd wanted her then, he would have taken _her_ then. Simple. His short hiatus was simply to procure some more—_items_ for his plan.

And what a plan it was, so perfect, so simple. Soon, soon, mere moment and he'd have everything that he's ever wanted_, she_, his master key, was merely a hair's breadth away, safely tucked away in _her_ little bed.

He wanted her now, and so he'd take her now. Simple.

There was no need for her before, she would undoubtedly struggle like the others, and then, quite sadly, he might have to—silence her. For the quiet was always so much more refreshing than the screams. And what a pity it would be, if her lovely little body was harmed, if the worms and flies got the chance to taste her before he did.

Sweet Cornelia, your mother never stood a chance to protect you.

Send her away? No, no, oh he'd follow. He needed her, it had taken him weeks to decide, now, he would have no other. Elyon deserved to be beautiful in her new life.

It had been pathetically easy to infiltrate the house, he had left his carriage in the shadows of the woods nearby, Mother Moon had been most gracious to shed her light elsewhere this night. He'd planned this for weeks, hours, every detail was drawn out in his head, and he had climbed into the house, like a phantom, just as he'd seen that little red haired girl do several times, by the tree that guarded her bedroom window.

After that, it had been simple; all he needed to do as to wait.

Cedric had been ordered to remain in the carriage, they'd need to hurry along now, there wasn't much time, her birthday less than a week away, she couldn't be allowed to spend her sweet fiftieth in that cold darkness.

And wait he did, even though his body sobbed with excitement, he stayed still. Too much time had been spent waiting and planning, it wouldn't do to ruin it all with impulse.

He'd heard her clamoring up the stairs, heavy feet, so unlike her—never mind, it didn't matter. She had pushed the door to her room open, and then, just as he'd imagined it for days, he'd listened for the gentle click that would herald his surprise.

He crept from the empty room, glad at least that the oldest girl had been absent, she was a loud, violent thing as far as he recalled, and he would have had to snap her fucking neck in two if she'd dared to interfere.

His feet were especially gentle against the carpet, in this darkness he felt safe, almost jubilant, and he pressed his lips closed. There were a total of twenty-nine paces from this door to the other, and then two hundred and eighty three more that would have to be undertaken in order to fin his obscured carriage.

It was all planned, so simple.

And then…oh no, a flaw, a tiny flaw.

On the thirteenth pace, he flinched and then almost laughed at the irony, the first door creaked open, bad, very bad, and then, even worse, a small head peered outside, and then a tiny pair of lips fell open. He didn't allow the girl to scream. One step, two steps, her face in his hands and then, delightful silence as the bones moved and her body fell lifelessly to the cluttered floor.

He paused to stare at the poor girl. Pretty, almost, a maid, Emily, he had learnt her name ages ago—flighty little thing. Alas. She should have listened to the old women, curiosity killed the cat.

His plans was slightly off now, he certainly couldn't leave the body here for them to find her, no, they weren't to notice Cornelia's absence until morning, until much, much too late.

The Ball downstairs only aided him, with those drinks and this noise, well; it would be noon before anyone here had enough wits about them to realize that something was amiss.

Foolish, the entire breed—his sister had been the only decent one of them, and their own accursed mortality had taken her away.

Now, now, remain calm. He captured the girl's small form in his arms, she was light even in death; this would clearly be no real problem.

And then he continued onwards.

Into Cornelia's room he ventured, swimming in the shadows, drowning in the blessed silence. She was such a sound sleeper. So quiet. So perfect. He relished in perfection.

He tucked the other girl under his arm and moved forwards, her loose neck was a hindrance as it bobbed uncomfortably on his thigh as he walked. He'd be rid of her soon enough, there was a pond about here as he recalled.

Ah, there she was. Truly, a vision with her golden locks spread out behind her like a crown. Sleeping Beauty, waiting for her Prince.

He wasted no more time. He was fast, he was young and he was strong. And he grabbed her slumbering frame swiftly, half expecting her to awaken, but of course, immensely glad that she remained still, he didn't care for any more accidents tonight.

With the two girls safely cradled against him, he darted across the hallway, rushed through the open third bedroom door and then, to the window. The night wind congratulated him on his success, it had always been dubious you see, trust was not in its demeanor.

He couldn't pass through with the both of them, no problem. Simple solution. Very simple, and so as to prove it to the mocking winds, he pushed Emily's frame through the opening, resisting the urge to laugh at the diminutive sound that her body made on this earth.

Pitiful really, they all were so…dispensable. Save for this one, no, she was an angel, a kind one this time, not like those cruel soulless heathens that taunted him when they grew bored. Yet, regardless of their annoyance, they were all very beautiful creatures.

Carefully, he adjusted her body so that he could easily maneuver with her, and then, with practiced ease, he slithered through the window, ceasing his body onto the sturdy branches before continuing on downwards, until the darkness engulfed him completely.

* * *

He had been packing, honestly, preparing to leave this place and go…to that aforementioned brothel—oh holy hell, no, not even the promise of cheap whiskey and even cheaper women could cheer him, he wanted her, only her. And he couldn't stop the impulse.

But he'd been trying; oh yes, he'd forced his idiotic feet to remain cemented in this cottage hadn't he? Not an easy task since they both seemed intent on finding Will every few seconds. He'd even planned an apology…so far.

But no, this was the right thing to do, he couldn't be this selfish, she didn't know any better than to want him—and he—well, he was foolish if he couldn't discern a thousand reasons for him to not to want her.

_Really?_

Taranee saved him from formulating an answer, she was breathless, panting and sweaty, not from running, as far as he could tell, but from excitement.

"I found out something from the Mother, we need to go, right now—get your things." She smiled when she noticed that he was already half way packed.

Glad, unimaginably ecstatic for the intrusion, Caleb more than happily continued the conversation, "What did you find out?"

Taranee took a long breath, before shaking her head and explaining in a quiet, rapid voice, "Phobos is coming here, I don't know how soon, but he wants the Mother, she's with his child, I think that he wants them both. From what I understand she was trying to marry off the blonde girl in order to send her away, which has to mean that the other girl's are in danger as well. We can lure him here if he believes that they're in the house…I'll have to tell Dublin though."

She was practically ready to explode by the time she'd finished. She'd done it after all, as far as she was concerned anyway, succeeded in her quest. Yet, something tugged at the back of his mind: "What about the other girls? Did she say anything about them?"

"What…" she had been pacing, slowly circling the room muttering to herself, planning of course, rolling out the kinks.

"The other girls Taranee. Why would Phobos kill them if all he wanted was Susanna?" She hadn't seemed to consider that. No; actually, she'd been much too thrilled about her managing to squeeze a plausible answer out of Susanna to really consider much.

But, she did have an explanation, one that would save the argument, a marriage and of course a few years of jail time.

"I…we're dealing with a mad man Caleb. I mean, he could have done it to scare her, or, you know what, we don't really have any proof that he did kill those other girls. What we do know is that our bounty is for Phobos, and that Phobos is coming here. Payday baby. Think about that."

"So that's it?" Was he disappointed? No, he should be appreciative. Tings in his life would be much clearer from now on. But the weights on his shoulders and the knots in his stomach refused to lessen, and he sighed in reply to her wide smile.

"Don't get soft on me now Caleb, not now, when we're so close to the end. All of that work—we've almost got him." She was close to pleading, well, as close as Taranee got anyway. Honestly, he had no doubt in his mind that her tone of persuasion was a façade to cover up the uneasiness and surprise.

He, once again, was being an idiot. The plan needed to get underway. Time was money right?

Right. "Let's go then, do you have a plan?"

"I always do." She grinned widely, all suspicions, at least temporarily, were forgotten. She had her boy back, and for now, that was all that mattered.

* * *

**Author:** So…um…hides behind story. So I was gonna put the sex scene here, but uh…I changed my mind. I'm ignoring your boos. Character wise, they aren't ready, she's messed up, he's guilt ridden, the first time is supposed to be…in chapter twenty six. Hehehe. It's already written, do you want a taste?

Insert sex here:

**He wouldn't let her; instead he followed her into the decent, until she surrendered her mouth to him once again. Her fingers seemed intent on investigation, even as her tongue swirled in the madness that he'd created, her hands swept through his hair, then over the sides of his face, into the shells of his ears, to drift over his neck, his shoulders, his back.**

Yeah, I am a tease. Waiting makes it better you know.

So not my best chapter, but not my worst. I wrote it fairly quickly in order to continue my mad dash to get this damn thing finished. But, well heaven knows that now that I've changed the plot…well I'm a relatively bright gal; I should be able to figure out a way to get these two together…hehehe…soo…

So yeah, Cornelia got kidnapped. Oh well, I know that most of you wanted it to be Will so that Caleb could rescue her, but—uh, I sorta had to write it this way to fill up an undisclosed plot hole. Plot holes lead to plot twists, as my friends say.

Hmmm, vampire Phobos? Maybe…

Review thank you please.


	21. Chapter 21

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

Chapter Twenty-One

* * *

If the wind could whisper, would she? Would she tell the tales of all that she knew, if only to comfort these curious human souls? Perhaps, no, yes, well I don't know. I have always imagined the winds to be all knowing, it's comforting to believe, don't you see? She has danced across skies and deserts alike, seen the summer fetes of the sunrise and the winter balls of the moon—so of course, yes, yes, if she doesn't know, then who? Who can?

No one?

* * *

There are tales, poems, stories that have been written of the woman who waits for her husband to return from war. Even more tragic are those tales, poems, stories written on the fiancée who awaits the return of her beau.

They aren't truly any different—although a love untested is far more distressing than one that has survived the torment of the years of togetherness. And then there's youth to consider as well, love is meant for the young, isn't it?

Heartbreak is meant for the old.

* * *

The taste of frustration was exceptionally sweet when compared to the flavor of heartbreak, there was no contest, in her strange, heavy, swirling mind as to which one she'd rather have coating her tongue.

Not that she could taste anyway, she could barely breathe in fact, so great were the numerous pains attacking her body—she'd based her decision not on actual sensation however, rather it had been on the knowledge that heartbroken Will was a slobbering, doltish brat…whilst irritated Will, from what her mind seemed to recall, was generally a more likeable individual.

And she needed to be levelheaded presently, with her body revolting like this, she needed to get home, to her bed—she suppressed a shiver and the subsequent wave a queasiness that followed—she would sleep this discomfort off, and decide tomorrow how she could be as detestable as possible at the wedding…_hell hath no fury_, after all. _Wait,_ "Will, I don't think that you're invited…" she coughed then, pausing in the middle of the whimpering, deserted field as a second wave of nausea slipped into her stomach, one that seemed adamant to avenge his predecessor's death—and was so viscous that Will doubled over in the attempt to control it.

Her feet were ice cold—in fact, where had her shoes gone? She must have taken them off she decided, sneezing, as if to punctuate the memory that she didn't seem to have.

Beside her, the wind whispered restlessly, calling her name in a language that she didn't recognize…touching her in ways that she didn't appreciate…she tried to pull away from it's claw like embrace, but it's grip was massive, it surrounded her…she was almost there now, she could see the massive brick structure as it rose impressively from the damp bushes, and as it, yes, touched the massive twilight ceiling. She had never once noticed just how large this house was…

The winds took notice as well, deserting her small, shivering frame once the shadows of this mountainous wall roared their disapproval.

With a groan of relief, Will collapsed against the brick structure, inhaling the vague scent of copper and metal, perfumes that strangely, brought her comfort. Trembling, aching, burning as each scalding breath passed over her weather bruised lips, she dragged her body along the surface until she discovered, what felt like a…door.

Finally, this would all be over…she spun the knob hurriedly, pushing open the door with a click that echoed through the quiet halls of the house, and she stumbled inside.

* * *

He was behaving like any child would, having had their favorite toy taken away, sulking, quiet, attempting to pass off his vacant stares and occasional groans as pensiveness. Taranee had quite enough.

"And what the hell is wrong with you now?" She snapped, her hands immediately stopped what they were doing, tightening her horse's harness, they needed to get this carriage set up as soon as possible, _kind of him_, she thought acidly, _so very kind of him to help._

"Nothing," he murmured, still avoiding her gaze at all costs, "why are you still asking me that?"

_Oh I don't know,_ she twisted her face into a look that showed without question that she thought that he was idiotic beyond comparison. He had managed at least three minutes of enthusiasm and for that, and she supposed, given his current behavior, that he thought that she should be satisfied with it…well, like hell she was!

"Do you want to stay here?"

"No Taranee…" He was getting very tired of her constant questioning…he was doing his best, _really_. It wasn't his fault that his head and his…well every other part of his body seemed to be in disagreement.

"Then pull it together! You aren't concentrating, you know better than this. What the hell is wrong with you anyway? Are you sick?"

He grumbled incoherently, and she finally decided that it was best to ignore him before she shoved this saddle into his ass. She was too tired for much violence now, in any case, since he had been so completely unresponsive, she'd been the one to go off into the woods to find her horse, she'd been the one to saddle him, and she'd been the one to come up with this plan…her eyes drifted to Caleb's suddenly.

"Do you remember the plan?" In the lonely, faltering glow from the nearby lantern he met her stare, nodded his head and then went back to staring at the raised platform with a sort of wistful look on his face.

She didn't believe him.

"Remember, I'll go into the house." Taking a long soothing breath she reiterated the plan slowly, as though she were speaking to a person with a very small intellectual capability. "I'll collect the family in the carriage and I'll take them into town, while you wait here until I get the other men. When we all return, we'll all wait for Phobos to…"

"I know Taranee. I heard it the first nine times you…"

"Look, I am damned sick of your attitude…"

"Well I am damned sick of yours! I heard you all right; I understand what you want from me…"

"Fine," the lantern flickered in the wind, an open invitation for the shadows to come and feast upon their bodies. "Look, here," she reached into a pouch attached to Thor's saddle and removed a pistol. "It's yours, you can have it back…only because you'll be alone." she clicked her tongue when he took it from her, "don't hesitate to use it…he's dead or alive, it doesn't matter."

"Right."

"Good." Choosing to ignore his heavy expression, she outed the lantern and led the way outside. "Go down the path, there's a pond or lake there, as I remember…wait around there," she whispered, "don't let anyone through, except me…you'll know because of Thor."

"Right."

"Really, Caleb. Just keep your head…"

"I know." And she listened as his footsteps passed her by and faded into the night. "Men," she cursed, before turning, and heading over to the main house, frustration dissipated into the night's cool breeze, adrenaline however, was born in this night.

* * *

Inside of the house was freezing as well, Will realized that the instant she stepped through the threshold. Not to mention that the ambiance was also disobliging…the Ball seemed to be over by now…the house was plunged into darkness, the only sounds came from the outside world—howls, screams, groans…

Groans?

Even in her disillusioned state she couldn't convince herself that _that _had come from the outside. There was someone here—in the…kitchen, yes…she moved backwards, before colliding with a stack of cast iron pots, which fell to the ground with a ringing that moved through the house like thunder.

The groans grew louder…and slowly, the spark of recognition in her mind was fanned into a flame.

"M-Mother?" she breathed through her scratchy throat and aching lips.

"Will…I'm here, come, come to me…I can't stand."

"Are you hurt?" she forced herself to ask, and then fumbled through the darkness to find the woman when no answer came.

"No…I just…my head…"

Will found her mother huddled on the floor, her hair straining against the grip of several ribbons and her dress covered in ashes, and she bent to reach for her hand, "Will, your hands…you're freezing. What were you doing outside?"

"I-I…" the memory caused a pang of humiliation to piece her chest; she forced herself to ignore it. "I'll take you into the parlor…someone…can…" she coughed.

"No, no…go find Irma or Jeffery or Yanlin…"

Will nodded dumbly, following her mother's order as though she had no other choice in the world…she noted grimly, as she heard her mother's voice whimpering from far off in the darkness that it was entirely too conceivable that she _didn't._

* * *

"Will?" She hadn't gotten far from the kitchen—rather, as she had been staggering through the narrow hallway to the parlor, she met up with Irma—or what sounded like Irma. In the colorless haze that had quickly become her surroundings, Will squinted as this figure strode over to her.

"Are…you…Will, you're as pale as a ghost! And your gown…" She felt her sister's hands touch her face, _she was freezing_, Will hissed at the feeling and managed to pull away.

"Mother," she mumbled, "she's in the kitchen…she needs help."

"What?" Slowly, comprehension fell atop of her pretty face, crushing her once jovial features. "What's wrong with her?" Her voice shook as she spoke…gone was the elation she had felt for forcing Cornelia to an early night…now, all she could feel now was fear—she'd never once seen Will look like this…and now their Mother…

She didn't know what to do. "Should I go get her?"

"Get Jeffery…I don't think that she can walk…"

"Will, you should go sit down," she choked out, panic was seeping through her system, she didn't like the taste of responsibility.

"All right…I'll go to the parlor." And with Irma's help she was led to a large floral settee. "Stay here…" trembling, Irma commanded, and without another word, she disappeared up the stairs.

* * *

Jeffery had gone off to his bedroom early, as she recalled…but once she reached the second landing she ran off to the opposite direction, to her own bedroom. "Emily…" she called, finding the door already half open, she pushed it in further. She'd need the girl to take care of Will…make her some tea…or something…oh, how did this happen? Everything had been going so well!

And they seemed determined on becoming much, much worse. Emily was gone. Her room was still, strangely orderly as though someone had been tidying…but she was gone.

The clock behind her chimed the hour, and Irma was sent spiraling back into the reality. She ran as fast as her legs could carry her to Jeffery's chambers, and then, finding the door locked. She pounded on his door, until…disheveled and clad in only in a very sheer night shirt that fell mid-thigh, he swung open the door.

"What in the bloody hell in the matter…"

"It's Mother." She breathed, knowing that the panic showing in each and every trembling line of her body. "s-she's sick, in the kitchen, she can't stand…"

And before the brunette could even utter a single word about Will, the man had taken off; he was halfway down the stairs before she'd noticed that he had moved…

_Wonderful_. Relief at her success, and slowly, yes, pride too, vanquished the initial fear and trepidation. Hah! She could be responsible when the situation demanded it. Smiling smugly to herself, and then silencing all other thoughts in her mind that tried to tell her that she had simply obeyed Will's orders…she strutted down the dimly lit corridor with a renewed sense of self importance.

She halted as she passed by Cornelia's bedroom…strange, that door was ajar as well…

Ignoring both the sense of dread and the sense of reluctance (she really didn't need to be in Cornelia's presence now), she poked her head into the doorway and forced her eyes to distinguish the many dark shapes in the room…

Finally, she found the bed, covered in shadows, tucked into silence…the _empty _bed.

Her stomach shifted…and she swallowed. "Cornelia?"

No answer.

The hands of fear touched her back, and covered her in a feeling that made the hair on her neck and arms stand at attention, whilst her heart thundered a strange drum roll to which they all marched to.

_Oh God… _

* * *

In the haunting company of the darkness…and the darkness alone, Caleb's mind was finally able to join forces with the already mutinous organs and limbs…they put him, in quite a conundrum…

He reminded himself of his mind's initial wishes as he could summon them up…she didn't want him…_but she could_…he reminded himself of how she had kissed him, her lips so soft, tender, curious almost, he hadn't ever forced her, she wasn't the sort of girl who could be forced…

But no! She didn't need him either…but God how he needed her. Even now as he stood here, his skin still burnt from where she had touched him, it was a pain unlike anything he had ever known, it stole his sanity, his breath, his heart…was it fair to deprive himself of her?

What would she say if he went back? If he really did tell her everything…his thoughts lingered on the scalding recollection, the rejection of earlier today, beneath the tree—but she'd come back…he couldn't stand not knowing…he owed them both that much in any case.

He was pulled away from his ponderings as the sound of a carriage rolled through the once silent night. Even in the darkness Thor could not be mistaken, his charcoal colored coat gleamed in the moonlight, his teeth were bared, and at the helm, clad in a long dark cloak, her hat pulled low over her features, was Taranee.

"That was fast," he whispered, quickly moving onto the grassy bank to avoid a collision. The carriage sped past, and he caught a glimpse of Cornelia through the small window in the side, she seemed asleep, her long blonde hair, silver in the night, fell about her face like a curtain…the carriage refused to slow, moving past him without a word, leaving naught but dust in its wake.

Well, there seemed to be a change in plan. If Will and her family were already with Taranee…then he'd be forced to remain here at least until Taranee returned with the men, then he could find her…and explain himself properly. His mind relaxed a bit, already formulating a technical solution to this problem, his heart however, remained wound up…

He was already contemplating his fate if she dared to tell him no…

* * *

"Madam, for the love of God, please speak to me!" Jeffery moaned through his tears, clearly beyond the delicate strand of reasoning that usually kept him at least relatively composed.

"I'm fine Jeffery." She smacked away the hand, before pressing her fingertips to her temples. She was propped up by all of the pillows that Jeffery could find, leaving Will, currently ignored, to gaze at the two with mounting aversion, from her vantage point she could see right up Jeffery's nightshirt…it wasn't pleasant.

"Will, what on earth happened to your gown! Your grandmother Will not be pleased…" she smiled slowly, "actually, go upstairs before the mud stains the chair, you do look a fright. Did I frighten you that much?"

Will would have shook her head if it didn't hurt her so much to move, but instead she obeyed yet again, the thought of her nice warm bed was far too good to ignore.

"Your highness, what on earth were you doing in the kitchen?" Jeffery hoisted his nightshirt up to his face to cleanse the copious amounts of mucus and tears; both mother and daughter flinched at the action.

"I-I," Susanna squinted, apparently the memory was misplaced…"I was kidnapped!" she gasped suddenly, jumping to her feet; dislodging pillows and Jeffery alike. "By the wedding woman!"

"Mother…go to bed." Will, who had lingered a while longer in order to discover the reasoning behind her mother's sickness, decided that she was indeed, better of ignorant, and started to maneuver through the stifling darkness to the stairs…her head hurt enough without her mother's dim-witted stories.

"I'm…telling the truth…she was asking me questions…about Count Phobos…and…and."

"Mother, maybe you simply imagined it all," Will sneezed, then clutched the doorframe to stop herself from reeling, "how would the wedding woman know about Phobos. And even if she did why would she care anything about…"

Interruption came with the sound of the main doors opening, Will moved towards the noise, but with both the darkness and her headache impeding her curiosity; it was hard for her to discern the cause…

"What was that!" her mother screeched, and Will sighed inwardly, if a criminal of any sort ever came into this house, Susanna's constant screaming would ensure them all a quick death…

"Goodnight." Footsteps, followed by a voice as smooth as silk, danced through the darkness.

"You!" Susanna hissed from the shadows, and by straining her watery eyes, Will could just make out her long figure gliding about the furniture as though there wasn't anything wrong with her in the first place.

"Jeffery! Attack her! She's come to finish me off! She's had a taste, and she knows that I'm good!" It's important to note that Jeffery stayed rooted to the spot.

"You may stop the theatrics both of you." Her voice remained impeccably calm, "I intend you no harm. I am here to help you as a matter of fact, and if you'll allow me, there shall be no problems among us."

Will coughed a bit, her mother continued to stare, before Jeffery finally muttered what had been running through each of their minds, "what?"

"My name is Taranee Cook, I was hired by Dublin…Constable Dublin to be perfectly correct, to investigate the murders, and to capture the murderer. This isn't very surprising, and I'm not the only one who has been in your presence. My partner, Caleb, has been impersonating your daughter's fiancé for a long while now. If we'd wanted you dead then…"

Now it was Will's turn to exhibit shock, in doing so she pressed herself harder against the steady wooden column, feeling as though her entire world had started to shake and turn… "What?" she breathed, in a voice so low that she was the only one who seemed to hear it.

"…you'd be dead."

"You've been doing _what_!" Susanna's reaction was far more vocal. "You little whore! You and that god damned man Dublin! Do you have any idea what you've done! Impersonating!" She continued to shriek as though the word was a particularly difficult French verb, "_impersonating_! You're fucking joking! Tell me that this is all a fucking joke!"

"Calm down Mrs…err…"

"I will not be calm! I'll scream my heart out if it pleases me because you and that blasted man have killed us all!"

Perhaps it was the sickness…perhaps the soothing hum of the darkness in her ears and across her eyes, Will wasn't certain, she didn't dare credit it to the last bit of knowledge that had quite frankly tugged at her already stinging heart…whatever it was, Will understood it, and accepted the fact that her mother's voice was moving further and further away, and that somewhere a lovely, comfortable voice was calling to her…

Irma stomped into the crowded parlor, eyes wide, hands shaking, sweaty and breathless…"Cornelia…" she gasped, "…Cornelia's gone…I can't find her anywhere!"

…she released the smooth column and followed that voice, falling numbly onto the carpeted floor.

"Will?" Irma called, whilst their Mother too fell to her knees, screaming a mixture of curses and prayers, directed at the ceiling…

"What's…" Taranee began to stammer, all composure lost, she allowed her mind's first reaction the coat her words; confusion. "…happening…explain this to me…"

"Mama," Irma's voice rose above hers, drowning it out entirely, it was in the form of a shrill scream caked with a far more powerful emotion; fear… "She's fainted Mama, it's the fever…you know how she gets when she's sick…"

Out of the corner of her eye Taranee watched the girl, kneeling above her sister, who was now seemingly comatose…save for the occasional shudder and twitch…

Fear seemed contagious, and there was more than enough of it in his room, she backed away, feeling cold, feeling muffled, feeling trapped, she managed to flee into the foyer before it's icy touch abandoned her…leaving the slippery arms of guilt to take its place. She tried to swallow, but found that her mouth had dried out…

She'd fucked this one…massively.

* * *

It took only a matter of minutes for the profuse number of screams, shrieks and curses to awaken the remainder of the house. Like a dam that had been ruptured, they began to trickle into the parlor, first, just a few, the Chinese lady and her granddaughter, three or so servants, followed, rapidly by nearly everyone within listening distance.

The house, which had turned in early due to the floundering festivities, now seemed entirely too lively, a buzz of conversation passed through the room, and yes, the entire situation was chilling, because even through it all, excitement lay festering beneath these words.

Soon the lights and lamps had been lit, the small red haired girl had been carried upstairs to her room in the arms of one of the cooks, and everyone had crowded about Susanna, who was now explaining the entire situation in a loud, broken voice.

"Phobos…" she was currently gasping, "he's taken my baby!"

"Emily!" Irma put in; she looked the worst of all. She was nearly as pale as the crisp white bonnet perched on her head… "Emily is missing as well."

Many of the servants faced her then, bombarding her with questions:

"What are you doin' wearin' her dress, mam?"

"I-I'd," she looked at her mother's crumpled form and bowed her curly head before muttering, "I had wanted to go to the Ball…and so I'd convinced her to give me her clothes…if I had known…"

"It was you then, the girl that we'd been gettin' all those complaints for!"

They returned to the small crowd that they had formed originally, going back to their whispering and curious, hesitant stares…

Only then did Taranee feel bold enough to re-enter the room.

"He'll kill her," the shivering woman moaned to the oriental lady who was currently holding onto one of her trembling hands. "We…" she sniffled suddenly, and beneath the tears, resolution glittered stubbornly, "…we must get her. Quickly, if she only has been taken tonight, then we can still rescue her!"

No one else seemed very eager to agree.

It was Yanlin who first shattered the silence, "Before we go trotting across the land after this man, we must first understand why he did what he did…we must plan our course of attack, because believe me, he has already planned his." She looked thoughtfully down at her raven haired friend, who nodded sharply, but didn't reply.

"Susanna…" she pressed, and slowly each and every eye in the room turned to stare at her.

"H-He…" it seemed that the force of their questioning glares penetrated the seal of secrecy that she'd placed over her lips, she lowered her eyes to her lap, "we were married very quickly…I-I was…we'd met through a friend, he and I…but he only showed an interest in me once he came to the house…for tea, you understand. Of course, of course I thought then that he must be interested in my money…"

"Whose money?" Roared Miss Vandom, clad in a massive navy robe, pipe clenched between her teeth…

"_Your money_…so of course, when he first proposed marriage, I refused. And besides, a woman of thirty three like myself wouldn't dare to remarry at this age—those old hags would have a jolly good time with that…"

"What does this have to do with anything! Why were screaming? Who stole whose baby! Which baby, was it Wilhelmina!" She stared at the openmouthed crowd, none of whom were willing to surrender any answer.

"N-no…it wasn't…" Haylin began, but was quickly quieted by a loud moan from Susanna.

"Yes, yes it was Wilhelmina! She's been kidnapped by a madman!" She buried her face into Yanlin's silk robe.

"What!" Upon the nearby mantle, the portraits decorating the marble seemed to shake at the magnitude of her voice.

"Why wasn't I awakened at once?" There was a collective swallow, and of course an undisturbed silence, people had actually begun to shy away from the woman, Taranee included.

"We…we wanted to plan our course of attack first…and of course, we needed to be certain…"

"There is no time to waste. She is the heir to my husband's fortune! If a single hair on her head is frayed, it'll be your neck Susan!"

After that she seemed to be beyond words, merely grunting now and again that she should have taken the child away sooner…

The minute that her back was turned however, Yanlin mouthed a question concerning her impractical fib, to which Susanna whispered back, "it's the only way that we'll get her to help us look for Corn…"

"Well," she turned upon them all suddenly, several people gasped, "was there a ransom note?"

"Er…yes!" Susanna squeaked.

"Give it to me…"

"I-I've misplaced it…due to the terror…"

She grunted like a caged beast then, but didn't say anything else; instead she began to pound the blessed antique rug with her heavy walking stick.

Imagining now that the commotion was finally over, Yanlin urged Susanna to continue.

"Oh…well, he was very persistent that man, I was flattered, but still…but then…suddenly, just like that, I found that I couldn't resist him any longer…"

"What does this have to do with my granddaughter dammit!" The redhead hissed, but was shushed, surprisingly by a stern look from Yanlin, a woman less than half her size, both horizontally and vertically.

"Love potion. You should have known how to protect yourself…" she explained once there was silence.

"I've heard enough. This is obviously a ransom deal…and we should proceed as such." Not one to be obedient for long, Miss Vandom began to bark once more.

"Miss Vandom, understand what I tell you. This man…who has poor little Will, he is possessed with an evil that is not of this world…"

"Is he now? Well then," she extracted a pistol from the space within her bosom, it glistened with sweat; her distorted—excited face, merged with the metal, and she spoke in an eerie type of voice, "I'll just have to exorcise him with this!"

They all watched, transfixed as she stomped out of the room, finally breathing again once they heard the _slam_ of the main doors.

"Hurry now Susanna…we may talk more freely now that the witch is gone."

"Yes, well…it was a while after the wedding that I noticed the murders…and his disappearances…business he'd always say…but I found…his things once…the eyes…had had eyes, human eyes, kept in a bottle…I'd been simply curious about why he always spent so much time in the library…you can't imagine how it frightened me."

"What then?" Whispered Haylin; who was curled up near to the fire place, her brown eyes wide as though she were listening to a particularly gruesome bed-time story.

"He'd come home late that night…I had intended to confront him. But then I found him looking into Cornelia's bedroom, staring at her—and I…everything made sense then…those other girls…all fair haired…"

The entire room broke off into confused whispers, some of disbelief "_he was always so polite_," others of agreement, "_I_ _always knew him to a bad one…it was the look in his eyes…_"

"After that I knew that I had to get Cornelia away from here…send her away, you understand…but I couldn't just do it…she had such a bright future ahead of her…if I sent her away so suddenly, I knew that _they'd_ begin to speculate…that she was pregnant or…dishonorable…and I couldn't…"

"Well, you were being very ridiculous! I must say! Why didn't you send her to your family! We would have…" her mother, wrapped thickly in her blanket and facing the opposite direction, spoke up.

"No, no they wouldn't! Don't you think that I tried! Ever since Will gave those girls the measles…and then there's this rumor that started with Irma…and…they wouldn't take her."

"So that's why you arranged the marriage…" Taranee began, it all made sense now…

"Of course, if she were to be married, to a good man, of good breeding, he'd have to take her away, he'd protect her…and Phobos, would never find her…but he did…Oh God he did…" She broke down into fresh sobs.

"Mother…I-I…I'm so sorry…" Irma, now visibly trembling from her head to her feet, spluttered.

"Irma not now…"

"No, no, that's…I told him, I told Phobos about the wedding…I invited him here…I told him to come…" She fell to the floor in a miserable heap, convinced; completely convinced that this entire thing was her fault and her fault alone …

"What on earth…" Susanna looked up from her damp sleeves to survey the fallen girl…

"He…he was my…my friend. Well, I told him everything…about me, about all of us…" Her confession came swiftly, as though she could avoid the word's consequences if only she could say them quickly enough.

"Irma, slow down…"

"When he left, I had been going through Will's things…because you'd told us to burn them all…remember, so that they wouldn't breed the measles…and I'd found some papers…they'd been his…I think, one had an address…I just wrote to see…you know…and then he wrote back and…I never knew that he was…"

"She's bad luck. I've told you that since the day that she was conceived. When we leave to find the girl, she'll have to stay." Yanlin spoke solemnly, ignoring the brunette's sobs and pleas for forgiveness.

"I didn't…I really didn't want her to…"

"He had body parts you said. Eyes?" A piece of this puzzle had suddenly slipped into place within Taranee's mind, the gazes of those in the room, for the first time tonight turned to look at her. She began to explain in as solid a voice as she could muster, "Those other girls…Dublin's daughter had her hair shaved…and there was another who had all of her teeth pulled…"

"He's collecting these things…for a spell." The Asian woman moved away from Susanna's side to stand in the center of the room, they all followed her with their eyes.

"A spell?" someone echoed.

"A resurrection spell." She further enlightened.

"Oh Jesus…I can hear it! I can smell the blasphemy. God is alive; he was raised from the dead! Don't speak these damnable words with your heathen tongue! Do you hear that Jesus, it was not me saying these things! I want nothing to do with this…my reward lies in heaven and you shan't take it away!" She attempted to run away from what she had termed the "road to hell", sadly however she tripped on her thick blanket and fell flat on her face.

"God?" she whispered then.

"I don't…believe…" Taranee murmured, this was truly too much…never had she expected…_suspected_…

"You don't have to, he does, and this is what he's attempting to do. It has to be. He'll call the spirit from the other world, to a body that he has created…"

"Cornelia's?" Susanna stared, her hand was clutching her dress at the spot above her heart.

"She's only part of it, I imagine. He probably intends to kill her at the very moment that the spell is cast…so that she'll be…fresh. The other parts…I imagine are to replace the features that he finds unappealing…the teeth, the eyes…the hair…"

"Are…you certain…" Whimpered Susanna, the thought of her poor child being dismembered was clearly too much for her to consider.

"The book that you lost, this spell was detailed in there. He must have taken it." She continued, obviously ignorant to the several individuals who had heard quite enough of this tale and had begun to journey out of the parlor, just as quickly as they had run in…

"We have to hurry then…we've lost too much time already." With a determined look etched clearly onto her tear stained face, Susanna moved to her feet.

"He can't cast the spell until the next full moon—next week. We have time to find her until then…"

"But he could be anywhere…" Taranee put forward.

"The spell has to be cast in a cemetery. I know that at least."

"Who is he trying to resurrect?" Whispered Susanna, the determination seemed to be temporary, for now she appeared more hopeless than anything else.

"Did he ever speak to you of his family?" Feeling as though she had to find someway to rectify the damage that she had done, albeit unintentionally, she began to question the fallen Countess.

"No…" she surrendered, now too far gone to even scream her still thriving hatred.

"Irma," But Taranee would not be daunted, she was a smart woman, and they'd see that. "Where did you send those letters to?"

"Connecticut." She answered at once.

"Well, then there is our answer…" she looked to the faces of the remaining family members, "it's our best bet."

"We can't get there in less than a week." Concluded Susanna, now taking to pacing about the room, "And then what if it's wrong? Mother stop singing!" Her mother had burst into the chorus of "_To God Be The Glory_" the moment cemetery had been mentioned.

"I think that…" Yanlin began to calculate, running her tongue over her lips as she evoked routes and short-cuts, failing to succeed at that endeavor, but then deciding to recall potions and spells, "from my memory, yes…we can slow him down…"

"Wonderful…if you don't allow him to do it next week, then he'll have to wait another month." Now, the adrenaline had returned, it fueled Taranee, and she swiftly became eager once again, hanging on to every spoken word.

"What if he grows impatient, angry? He'll just kill her…she's not the most amicable person in the world…no offense Mother." Squeaked Irma from her corner.

"He went through all of this trouble for her…we can only imagine that she's very important to him." Yanlin brushed aside her fears.

"All right, what do you suggest Yanlin?" Dripping with anticipation, Susanna raked over Yanlin's frame with her deep, purple eyes.

"There's a spell for a quick death."

"Yes, yes do that one!"

"Well, as I recall, it requires a fresh fish…and ten pounds of black pepper then you must write his name on some paper…and bury the entire thing on his property."

"Well that's not helpful at all!" Snapped the confused woman, pausing in her pacing to stomp her feet like a tantrum throwing child, "How fast will he die?"

"Six to seven months…maybe ten if it's a dry season…"

"So what's a slow death?" Haylin asked the question that was on everyone's mind.

"Six to seven years…three if it's a war."

"Never mind, what else do you have?" Susanna was unwavering in her decision that they kill this man through any means necessary.

"There's a spell for impotence." Offered the Chinese woman, without even so much as flinching.

"Honestly?"

"Well…it's not so much a spell as it is chopping off his…" she clicked her tongue, a strange euphemism for _penis,_ "with a garlic coated machete."

"We're doomed!" Susanna mouthed like a suffering fish before dropping, yet again, to her knees.

"No no, there's a spell for good luck…you need five pounds…and three pence…payment, for even through your crisis I cannot starve. And then I shall give you a pendant for good luck, and one to ward off evil, and one for fertility!"

"We're ready to go. I found a carriage in the Stables, already set up! At least you all had the sense to do that. Have you imbeciles found the ransom note yet!" Miss Vandom had retuned, her skin seemed flushed from the frigid night air, but her eyes gleamed something fierce.

"Frog faced cow." Whispered her daughter-in-law, before chirping in a long, tortured voice; "Yes, yes…I had it all along."

"Let me see…" She began to march towards the woman's shrunken form.

"You can't…I mean, Daddy ate it." She jumped to her feet. "Err…bad Daddy, bad!" She scolded the foaming man in the corner. "_He's_ in Connecticut however, and he claims that we won't be able to get there in a week." She offered a small smile to her…regrettably, _best hope_.

"Let's be on the move then!" With a shove of her trusty cane she clobbered the floor. "We've wasted enough time. Perhaps if we hurry then we can catch up with him."

"Irma stay here and take care of…_Gloria_…my pet parrot," she gulped, "Oh, how she hates being alone. The rest of you, come along."

"You're sending _them_ along, but I have to…" Irma began to protest, she hated being alone…she really didn't want to be alone with that frightening image of Will.

"You've done more than enough Irma. Stay with Wil—Gloria."

"Do you have supplies?" Questioned the massive woman, halting them all with a single breath.

"All we need is the air in our lungs and this fine piece of tender cow." The honorable Duckriver bellowed, before kicking the fallen image of his wife, "We roast the thighs first, and then we can use the belly fat for energy as the weeks pass by…"

"Go into the back Jeffery, collect some of the jars that we have…and some bread, we can get some water from the stores outside…tell the servants to search the property, and not to let anyone in here…we're all going…"

"There's a problem though…they've all…left." Taranee stated what she thought had to be the obvious.

"Left?" She repeated, and for a long second the black girl believed that she might begin swearing again.

"During the…err…discussions…I don't think that there's but a one of them left…"

Susanna bit her lip, her teething forming a thin, white line. "All right…that's fine, we'll do it ourselves…are you coming with us then?"

"Yes," Taranee straightened her back, and raised her eyes, brown met violet in an unspoken contract.

"The more hands that we have the better." Yanlin chirped; leading her granddaughter outside, they were both loaded down with wooden crates and linen bags…

Miss Vandom however seemed less than impressed by this "rescue party". She could be heard muttering to herself all during the collection of goods…

"Hurry up!" She bellowed at last, "my poor Wilhelmina could be dead by now. I do hope that these people know that they shan't get a cent if I see once piece of her damaged!"

* * *

Taranee had excused herself from the party only minutes into the preparations, her mind had unexpectedly lingered on Caleb…and the fact that he was standing, still, outside in the darkness.

Her arms and legs pumped along the meandering road, so that the sounds of her stressed breathing and erratic footfalls were all that could be heard. She found him soon enough, although the sight of her made him jump, visibly, "What are you doing here?" He snapped.

She, who had taken a moment to catch her breath, looked at him viscously, "Change in plans boy…Phobos wasn't after the mother…"

"No," he stubbornly interrupted; his face was nearly comical, a mask of pure disbelief mingled with confusion. "I just saw you leave, with the blonde girl…Cornelia in the carriage."

The world around her quieted, and then exploded in a shock of red and white sparks, "you saw what? Then why in the hell didn't you stop them! That was Phobos!" She hissed, "How could you have let them go? I knew that leaving you alone in this state was a mistake…"

"It was _your_ carriage," he protested, "the horse was Thor, I swear…"

"How could it be Thor when I just saw him being packed up outside of the house?"

"Could he…" his face grew puzzled, "could you both have the same horse?"

"Caleb, I've told you that there are only…"

"I know, but what if, what if he has one of the others?"

She looked away from him…allowed the idea to stagnate, and then, "all right. If what you say is true, then that's actually _good_ news, I know what to look for now."

"You're going to go after him?"

"We both are…you won't believe who'll be accompanying us however," and she began to rush into an abridged version of tonight's events within the parlor.

She didn't manage to get very far into it.

"She fainted!" He looked fit to murder, "what do you mean she fainted?"

"She seemed like she was sick…I'm not sure, they took her to her room, she'll be fine. It seems like this happens quite a bit with her. Anyway, so then…"

"She had a fever…so they're just leaving her?"

"I'm getting to that," she spoke, annoyed at his questioning, but he didn't relent.

"They can't just leave her…something could happen, what if Phobos returns…" he faced the looming structure of the mansion, looking as though he were deciding upon the fate of the world.

Taranee rolled her eyes—but then, something cold hit her. "How did you know that she had a fever? Is this why you've been moping all night! Didn't I tell you…"

"Not now," he breathed, silencing her rant only because he had infuriated her so much.

"How could you do this?" She snapped, "How dare you get so involved?"

The roar of a carriage quieted her, she looked around to see her blessed Thor approaching, carriage in tow, the massive silhouette of Miss Vandom at the helm, only then did she return her gaze to him.

"Choose dammit."

He looked at her but didn't speak.

"Her or us. Pick. You know as well as I do that you can't have both. You come with me, or you stay with her. Pick. Now."

It didn't take him more than a second to answer, "I can't go Taranee."

If she was surprised she refused to show it, instead narrowing her eyes at his form, "fine, don't bother coming back." She hissed, "give me your pistol back. God forbid you two heartsick idiots decide to shoot each other once you realize just how ridiculous this is!"

She snatched the offending weapon away from him, and then hailed the speeding carriage; it came to an inelegant halt a few yards away. "I suppose that this is goodbye then." She tipped her hat to him.

"Good luck." He called after her, and then he watched as she ascended the front of the carriage, seating herself beside Miss Vandom, who then shook the reigns before they all took of into the night.

The winds watched from their perches, they saw and they questioned, but no, they didn't speak. They simply sang their night song as accustomed, ceasing only at that first hint of sunrise.

* * *

**Author:** _Matt,_ Zadien? _In my story_. Please, bad enough having to write about Cornelia—not him too. All right, this story took me an entire day to write. I awoke on this **SATURDAY** (woe is me) at 8am and then finished now it reads 7:30. Wow. I am beat.

I don't know how good it is. I ran the spelling errors but that's about it. I was actually very hesitant about this chapter; I knew that it's the most important, "explain the stupid plot" chapter, so I hope that everything is now clear to you.

If not, drop me a line and I'll gladly clear it up.

There aren't that many things left to happen, the rescue of Cornelia, etc. Caleb is staying with Will now, which wasn't a rush decision on my part, it was simply just supposed to come later on in the story.

All is explained with the books and the letters from Irma, as well as the horses. **_Oh and about those spells, I actually got them from a black magic book, so don't try them._**

I'm not sure when my next update will be, hopefully soon, seeing as it's got about 4 chapters left. So I hoped that you've enjoyed this!

Review please!


	22. Chapter 22

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

Chapter Twenty Two

* * *

Life stretches upwards, towards the skies, far from the prison of the earth that only obstructs growth and clouds the urge to breathe with phantoms of doubt and misery. Winds act like cloaks, made sturdy through the whispers of forgotten lovers, drifting, steadily onwards, to a source, a haven—they too have become weights.

Up, up—and onwards, never once ceasing this plan for escape, the heavens call to Life, and Life responds. Promises of freedom, of happiness—of a breeze so sweet that it kisses your face with all of the innocence of a babe—heaven—

There is one awful thing about heaven, freedom, happiness, especially that borne on another side of this world. Life stretches onwards, Life struggles against the torment of this world, never existing, never once seeing, feeling, tasting. No, Life has already seen it's goal, played out across ancient tomes and azure blue ceilings—Life craves this, so much, so impossibly much, that Life, forgets to live.

* * *

Consequence was a very heavy word. Yes, yes, and she could understand it now, there were heavy words and light words, words whose scripts seem wrapped in unrelenting trappings of sorrow and pain, others, simply so feathery, that they might have been created form Venus' own breath.

Light words were words like love and peace, tiny little things that couldn't harm a soul—although heavy words like consequence, blame and guilt, oh they were very painful indeed, slicing at tongues and teeth alike as the lips attempted to dismiss them from the body.

Shadows grew bold about her, grew hungry, ravenous actually, engulfing even the smallest space about her, leaving Irma naught but a tiny ring of light at the base of the stairs, illumination provided only her candle's faint orange face.

The silver candle holder shook in her hand, and she stared at it, disjointedly, watching, then scowling as the scent of burning wax infiltrated her nostrils, past her throat, into her stomach, halting only when even her marrow was infected by this stench.

She ignored it, presently immune to anything other than consequence, guilt and all of those other multitudes of _heavy _words. Irma felt worse than she could ever recall in her life, and she should, after all, _this_—all of this, had so quickly become all her fault.

She imagined that she must be an adult now—for the world of children didn't hold such repercussions—but (when she swallowed, it was the taste of mortification that coated her throat), she wasn't ready to be, she pressed her back further against the banister, the shadows leapt forward, she didn't know how—and there was no way, well not as far as she could see, to feign it.

The house was cold, large and empty. Truly, she had never felt so lonely…she swallowed again, this time from panic, her eyes grew wider, her body tensed, she thought that she'd heard something…a whisper, a footstep—a horse?

_Will?_

No, Will was upstairs, she told herself. And there was nothing outside—no one—because everyone had gone away.

She was alone.

But the beating of her frightened heart would not allow her to be calm, rather, it spoke in a harried, rushed voice to her mind, which molded her imagination—which made her shiver—

_Phobos?_

What if he was coming back—had Mother even thought of that? They were alone, meaning here that they were both helpless, neither of them any use to the other—if he wanted Will, by God he could just rush inside and take her away—if he wanted her, then she'd be damned—no of course Mother hadn't thought of it, her precious Cornelia was missing, so what did it matter that they were—

_Somewhere outside the breeze laughed at her trembling, and it called the moon to come watch as she shrank further into the darkness—_

She squeezed her eyes shut; well it served her right that they were unaided now. She had no one to blame but herself for their subsequent suffering. It was her fault that Cornelia was gone…her fault that Will was sick…

She couldn't allow herself the joy of feeling self pity—Will, needed her, she needed to be fearless for her sister. She wasn't entirely sure of what to do—when Will was like this, usually Mother would boil some remedy from her giant black book and then she'd be better in a few days…but there was no book, no Mother—no time—

She bit her lip, forcing herself to the vertical, perhaps—if she could find someway to get into town—then she could find a physician—they'd bleed her, it was a matter of certainty. Will, and she could remember the school mistress' exact words, had dirty blood. She could remember the days at finishing school when her sister had caught the chicken pox and had been sent across the pasture to the farmhouse to stay with the other ailing girls. Will had returned three weeks later with scars along her arms, which she'd hid when asked about.

But she'd seen her with fevers this bad before—so perhaps—no, it would be fine. Nothing worse could happen to this family, be it through her or otherwise.

She'd make herself sensible, and all would be forgiven—maybe, if she took very good care of Will until they all came back (and of course, they were all coming back, anything of the opposite had never crossed her mind), she'd be forgiven.

She was thinking like a child again, the things that she had learnt in Sunday school, if you accomplished something grand enough then all sins would be forgiven. Penance; atonement; salvation—

She'd go into the kitchen and boil some water, that was what one did, and then you put cloths on the person's forehead to drive away the fevers—yes, she could remember, it was the best that she could do.

That and to pray, hopefully that everything would right itself by sunrise. She just needed to keep them both safe until then.

Deciding then that her best means for protection would be to light each and every candle in the vicinity, she set off to work. For no one attacked a house when people were inside; save—and she immediately banished the thought—perhaps for the one whom she feared the most.

* * *

_The dark road seemed especially foreboding this night…_ The trees on both sides hissed when the frigid breezes scratched at their backs, they reached upwards with their misshapen fingers, clawing at the dark night, begging for redemption.

_It didn't come._

* * *

He was running, his mind was racing along side of him; a colorless blur of thoughts, prayers and memories. He ignored them until they collided, merged into a single streak of awesome color—_her_.

She had taken every reasonable thing away from him—his sanity, his peace of mind, his heart's blessed ability to agree with common sense—and yet, he loved her, yes, loved her—and even that seemed so inadequate, how could _love_ explain the absolute euphoria that had invaded the empty chasms left behind by the retreat of heart and mind and soul? How could love, little love, explain how his world transformed once she was once again in his line of vision…how empty, deserted, desolate he became once the thought of her leaving him ventured into his darkened mind.

This was…he couldn't explain it, and, he decided, he wouldn't attempt to sully the purity of this sensation by trying to name it, it as what it was, and he was more than happy to accept it. He didn't even care that she had forced this upon him, really, his intentions lingered on smothering her with kisses the moment that he laid eyes on her—no, she could keep heart, mind and soul, he enjoyed the buoyant feeling of…_this_…far too much to want them back. In fact, she could string them all along like a collection of pearls, wear them around her neck for the world to see, he didn't care.

There was a certain degree of freedom that came with admittance, with resolution, with the knowledge that somehow, somehow everything would become unbundled in the coming days. He would be free of the torture, free of the constant sleeplessness and second guessing…all she needed to do was to say yes—to agree to—he wasn't sure of what, it didn't matter, for it involved the two of them, together, and so long as she agreed to that, well then, he'd be more inspired to conceive a more thoughtful plan.

He was still a bit cautious about this—thinking. It would lead to reality, reality would force the contentment away…he needed to be certain first, he needed to hear her whisper of agreement, of acceptance, only then…

Was it pathetic to think this way? Was he foolish for pouring his being into another individual—this girl, who, truly could barely take care of herself, much less him…_was he _really truly so desperate? He, who had never known the love of another human being—merely a Mother, who had been too miserable in her lifetime to offer him little more that a whispery caress every time that his name crossed her fevered mind.

His feelings for her still, even now, lingered on a longing, a need, to be held, kissed—wanted; a child's desires. He was a child no longer—and he needed much, much more than the physical. He craved, rather, yearned for the knowledge of a shared acceptance, of a happiness wrought through misery and sacrifice; feelings that were so bold that they left men shaken and helpless.

* * *

The estate loomed before him, capsizing the raft upon which his thoughts floated upon…his future, his life, all the obstacles to what he could see was perfection, made real through brick and mortar.

Lights flickered around the house; he could see one solitary flame, dancing in the window of her chambers, another hovered around, nearer to the front door, pausing here and there, before disappearing completely. So at least, she wasn't alone.

He took a large breath of air, dragging it into his burning lungs in an attempt to quell the small fires that were consuming his limbs, _what would he say to her?_

What would he do? With the shadows of this massive place covering him nearly entirely, he found that doubt had made itself welcome in his mind. It was all well and good to say what he wanted, but what she wanted—well they could never seem to agree on that, not at the same time…

He was thinking again, a waste of time—she needed him, he needed her, regardless if either of them would admit it to the other. He wasn't entirely certain of what he would do—what he could—

_Thinking again_…he shook his head, thoughts clattered around, stilled and then quieted, he loved her, he knew it, and soon, she would too—and perhaps, when this entire thing began to—rectify itself, she'd learn to love him back.

It took him fourteen paces to reach the front door, he counted every last one, and then another, a fifteenth, one final step, to push the heavy wooden door open.

Love, for now, at least, seemed able to simplify things…

* * *

Darkness prevailed within the house, painted the walls in a thick velvety black, stole the noises of the night, created new sounds—ones that drew fear forward, and slowly, yes, the smell of sickness, the haunting musk that could overwhelm all else; that which could be felt in each of the five senses—

The cries of his thundering heart were magnified by the silence, at first he credited it to the running, then to the nervousness, for his mind was thudding as well; but finally he gave the praise to the recognition of that aroma—sickness, burning pastille and incense. Lavender to conceal it—horrible…

"W-What are you doing here?" The voice came from the floor above, not that he could see, merely hear, the trembling in the girl's voice as she desperately tried to cling to the fragments of her bravery.

He could see her if he tried. She held a candle in one of her hands; the glow illuminated her face and neck, although the shadows danced along the remainder of her body until she merged with the night, becoming only a strip of whiteness in the friendless dusk.

"Is she upstairs?" An introduction, no, his mind couldn't conceive one—an explanation, there was none, he'd spent the last few days attempting to explain it to himself, and truly, after that failure, he wasn't up to the endeavor of enlightening this girl with the follies of the heart…

"There…is…no one…no one here but me. Go away, you shouldn't be here…I'll scream." She was a terrible liar, although, to her credit, fear was a terrible interrogator.

"If you don't want guests," he stated calmly, making his way slowly up the stairway so that, at least he wouldn't frighten her any more, he never noticed that she was moving as well, "then I suggest that you lock your doors and…"

"I know everything about you…and believe me…when Will awakens…I'll make certain that she knows as well." He noticed her movement now that he'd successfully ascended the steps; she hovered nervously outside of her sister's bedroom door. His eyes lingered on her hand, reaching for the glistening brass knob.

"Irma…" Before he could complete his plea she had darted inside, slamming the door and outing her candle in the process.

She seemed braver now that she'd lost eye contact, because almost immediately she began screaming at him through the barrier, "You sir, are a scoundrel, a rake, a cad—and although you may be attractive…very attractive…your wiles will be useless on me…"

He heard her rant as he maneuvered through the darkness to the door alongside hers, he listened as her words echoed off of the walls of the house, through the empty rooms and darkness, now using her calls as a beacon of sorts, following her because he knew that she'd, inadvertently, lead him towards _her_.

"…you may think yourself clever for fooling my sisters…and my mother…and the neighbors and the servants. But I knew all along! Oh yes! From the very beginning, I said, _Irma_, because I call myself Irma, but never mind, I said _Irma, that man is of no good,_ you are the type who steals women for money and force dashing gentlemen to put your captives away quietly…you are no Mister Darcy however! And, June Aullen would have spat on you! You can leave us…"

_Jane Austen. _He corrected mentally, but he didn't dare speak, he'd reached his destination, through the Mother's room, to Will's…

* * *

"And furthermore…" It was the click of something behind her that made her mute, she'd had much, much, much more to say—conversation of any kind was very welcome, especially since she'd been rattling off to Will's unresponsive body for what seemed like, but couldn't have been, _hours_—but words failed her now.

She turned at the waist to look him over, he looked a mess. His hair was wild, his face flushed, damp, had he run here? She pursed her lips—he still hadn't noticed her looking at him, in fact, it seemed that he'd forgotten that she was here entirely.

* * *

This room wasn't as dark as the others, there were several candles here, placed randomly on any flat surface throughout the room. Here, the scent of fire and wax, no, not pleasant, intertwined with the perfumes of pastille and lavender. Nauseating…

He couldn't focus on the smell for very long however, for he'd seen her now. His eyes found her face, her arms…spread across the remainder of her person—that massive white dress, sullied now, more immense than ever now that she was lying down, scarcely breathing…her scarlet tresses spread out around her face like a halo.

Pushing aside the hesitation, he went to her, falling onto his knees beside the bed, watching her face, praying for the smallest sign of life…

"Hello!" Irma stomped from her perch near to the door, her heavy servant's shoes clunking atop of the wooden floor in the most annoying manner when she moved. "Weren't you listening? I'll scream if you don't vacate these premises this instant."

He didn't even look at her, although after a moment of her actually proceeding to scream, he told her, in that same calm, steady tone, "Why would you scream if no one is here to help you."

She gasped, and then backed away, her candle stick, holder and all, tumbled from her fingers, and she whispered, "Are you threatening me?"

"No…" He continued to ignore her after that…merely staring at her sister's face as though he could force life into her. It might have been…_sweet_, two days ago, that strange doting look in his eyes. _Then_, when she'd been under the miscomprehension that _he_ was noble and Will was deserving. But things were different now…it…it wasn't _proper_.

Significantly less proper than stealing another woman's fiancé was being left alone in a house with a man of disputable background…

She clicked her tongue, "you don't have to be here. She's fine with me."

He didn't answer; she hadn't truly expected him to. He didn't seem to like her—no, actually, she was rather certain that he didn't—In fact, if she were a bit more—presumptuous, she'd imagine that he felt as though _she_ was the intruder on this little…reunion…

She never took her eyes off of him, if he wouldn't move…well then neither would she! She had just as much right to be here as he, actually, more since he had no right, none at all. With the slightest of nods, she forced her gaze to remain on his face, his frame still crouched low over Will's…_too close_…

He finally seemed to have decided upon something very important then, for his face changed, softened, and he raised his hand to graze her forehead, it was the lightest of touches, and Irma, from her vantage point, doubted that either of them even felt it. His hand moved lower then, over her profile, past the curve of her nose, the rise and fall of her lips, over her chin, pausing at the arc at the base of her neck…

Mouth agape, the brunette began to sputter, "look, you…don't…don't touch her!" She needed a—weapon, she'd beat him off—yes, the image of herself whacking him continuously over the head with some unidentifiable object pleased her greatly, so she scanned the cluttered room for such an object, coming up short…

"How long has she been like this?" He asked.

Didn't he fear her threats? She was a formidable enemy, in her mind at least…_why was he here in any case?_ "Haven't you heard me? You're wasting your time, she can't hear you…" perhaps he didn't appreciate just how fruitless this was—this final phase of his ridiculous plan, maybe he didn't realize that everyone else had already left—she'd let him know, "She hasn't said anything to me all of…"

"C-Caleb…" a whisper, a gasp, a turn of the head and the rustle of sheets and gown. Her eyes struggled to open, as did her lips, but her hand moved, searching…_for his?_

He smiled slightly, touching her again, moving the stray hairs from her forehead with one steady hand, using the other to clutch her wandering fingers, "I'm here love." She heard the whisper, as clear as day, and it suddenly dawned on her that he might have been right—_she was the intruder_. The finer points of this situation were lost to her—not that she didn't wish to become informed—but things like this—they were better left alone.

"Don't…don't leave me." She breathed, seemingly pulling his hand closer to her face.

Irma backed away, she lowered her eyes, her face was burning and her skin felt—uncomfortable, hell, all of her felt—_uncomfortable_.

"She's been like this for an hour maybe…I'm not entirely certain…but you shouldn't worry. This happens all of the time, she'll be better soon enough." She watched for the vague nod that indicated that he'd at least noticed that she'd been speaking, before deciding to excuse herself—she needed to heat the water in any case.

She flinched at the first _clunk_ that her shoes made on the floor, and then at the second, by the third, she'd discarded them, and pranced towards the door on tiptoe, quietly closing it behind her.

* * *

"Don't go…" he listened for them, echoes, mere echoes of words, which carried his entire soul on their fragile backs.

Her hands were ice cold, but he couldn't let them go; her forehead was burning, even by the standards that he knew, and so he couldn't, really, couldn't leave...

He looked at her, for it seemed that that was the most that he could do; and greeted, rather, embraced the vulnerability that took hold of him. "I won't," he pressed her hand to his lips, kissing the protrusions of the bones there lightly, "I promise."

"I don't feel very good." She told him, as though this was a magnificent secret, eyes still half-lidded, and lips quivering with each passing breath, this tender image of her touched a part of him that he'd long discarded.

Even now, she was pulling him further into her, so easily. And he was falling, moving through the folds, until he rested, quite comfortably, in the reflection of himself that he could discern in her eyes.

She wasn't entirely coherent, it was one of the first things that he'd noticed, she'd pull at his hand only to turn and whisper something else into her pillow—but he was far too grateful for her movement to be concerned about her delusions, at least not presently, although he was convinced that all of that whispering and tossing wasn't normal, and the more that she did it, the worse he began to feel…

"I know," he whispered back, forcing a smile just as a precaution, if she _was_ more articulate than she seemed, then he didn't want her to be frightened by the sight of his worried face.

She nodded, closing her eyes completely this time and shivering as a cough racked her small frame. It was painful to hear, her breaths seemed strained, confined, they rattled within her, making her sound hallow, empty…Caleb drew closer.

"I lost my…shoes again." She stated, shifting her position in an obvious attempt to show him her naked feet, she coughed instead.

"It…happens a lot doesn't it?"

She smiled, for an instant, before dropping her hands to her stomach, tugging at her now slightly tattered gown, with his fingers caught in the mist of this battle.

"Does…that hurt you?" But she shook her head slowly, and then dropped her hands to her sides without releasing his, coughing again, gasping slightly as each shattered breath passed her along lips.

He looked away to stare at her waist, slowly, carefully, he dropped his own hand there, pressing slightly, and she laughed quietly at the contact, "What's this?" he'd encountered, not soft flesh, but something hard, firm, structured, it was tied around her it seemed—oh,_ one of those._

French contraptions, he'd seen them before, women tied themselves into these things so that they could fit into the tiny European fashions…well, no wonder she couldn't breathe.

"You'll have to take this off." He told her blank gaze. He received no reply, another cough, a sniffle, but no words.

"I'll go get your sister," the girl had left apparently, "I won't be long…"

Her reaction was immediate, she held onto his hand, dragging him closer to her, "don't go…" she mumbled, before coughing again, longer now than ever before.

"Will…"

"Stay, _please_…you p-promised me."

"You won't feel better until this is off…" he whispered, trying to calm her frightened features at the same time with a few scattered kisses.

She closed her eyes then, obviously refusing to listen to reason, stubborn, even on her sickbed. He couldn't find the strength to disagree, and he truly didn't wish to leave her. He'd wait until Irma came back.

"Are you going…" she coughed once, then twice, ignoring him as he said her name, "…to stay with me forever?"

He didn't answer her, absolutely persuaded by the state of her breathing and the sound of her words that she was suffocating; he edged himself onto the side of the bed, drawing her closer into his embrace, before propping her carefully against his chest.

She didn't mind, actually, she'd started humming a dull tune as he moved her, finally pressing her face into the curve of his shoulder once he'd settled her. "I'm going to have to take this off all right?"

She didn't speak, inhaling deeply instead, until she finally dissolved into yet another series of coughs.

"I want to sleep," she whispered when she had finally stilled, "I'm cold." No, she was freezing; her forehead had changed completely, no longer hot, now damp and icy.

"It…won't take long." He assured her, although, he suspected that more time should have been spent reassuring himself of that fact. His hands were trembling already, his fingers fumbled with the back of her dress, as he tugged at ribbons and buttons…his fingers collided over threads and knots, each failed attempt made him more anxious.

"I had a dream about you," she pressed herself further into him, her fingers tugging at his shirt, sometimes grazing the skin underneath. His hand had stilled, like a child caught dipping into the metaphorical sweets tin…when the back of the dress had fallen open, revealing to him small fragments of creamy, alabaster skin, slightly freckled…he looked away, reaching for the knife that he knew he'd kept stowed in his pocket.

"Really?" He made himself ignore the sensation of her bare skin against his palms, how nice it felt to be near her warmth, "what…what was it about?"

"We were dancing," she whispered, shivering suddenly but moving on, "I can't dance, but you were very good."

The tangles in _this _contraption were far worse than those in the dress—God damn the French for making everything so blasted complicated.

"I-I'm not very good actually…" he shifted her once more, seating her across his lap, willfully ignoring that intoxicating cologne of spices that she still managed to command.

"You were _very_ good. And there were fish—I like fish, and we were spinning," she coughed again, he felt the shudders as they wracked her body, this time he made shushing noises into her hair. He'd have to ruin her dress after all, there was, quite simply, no other way, a few more moments in this current position, and heaven alone might hold the answer for him.

* * *

It was clumsy work, foolish, because he'd been wielding knives for the majority of his life—this nervousness…He didn't want to cut her, perhaps if he'd stop shaking then he could reduce the chances…

The material fell away, in his haste it seemed as though he had slashed the sheer cotton of the chemise, revealing her naked back. Even in the shadows he could make out the silhouette of her frame, the subtle mountains and valleys…curves and hallows. He forced himself not to look, instead pulling her away almost immediately and pressing her back into her pillows. She seemed disorientated, and tried to pull him down _with_ her…

"No…" he peeled her fingers away from his shirt, and she whimpered with disappointment.

"Go to sleep now, all right?" He took her cold hand again and she curled her fingers about his and smiled with her approval. The storms in his mind finally began to fade.

"Skirt." She muttered in that same whispery voice, he watched as she punctuated the phrase with an exaggerated movement of her legs.

"What…" Of course he knew what she meant, truly, the large; bell like contraption visibly protruded upwards from her middle—it couldn't be comfortable, he'd known that as it had jabbed him several times in the leg when he had seated her on his lap, but he looked at it as though it contained a nest of locusts—she didn't seem to notice, or rather, in that fever hazed mind, she still found enjoyment in teasing him.

"Skirts." Tugging at his sleeve, she practically insisted that he act on her request, she was so damned spoilt…"Just wait until your sister comes back." He told her, but she didn't listen, instead pushing his hand down, along her small, heated frame, "take it off." She ordered finally, after his blood had boiled and his mind had blanked due to the sensation of her taunt body beneath his fingertips…

Knowing that it was foolish to touch her again, Caleb refused, staring at his pale hands rather than at her luminous eyes, knowing that they could so easily melt his resolve with a flicker of the eyelashes.

She was moving, he heard the sound of the squealing bedposts, felt her hands, like the fingers of the winds, wrap about his wrist, he looked up, to tell her to lie back down, but she was already too close, she kissed him atop of his nose with warm, dry lips, giggling when the damage had already been done.

He gulped audibly, pulling into his system whatever was left of his discipline, "L-lie down…you need to sleep…"

"No," she laughed, drawing nearer, intending to touch his lips on this try.

She flattened her palms on top of his knee, he moved his own hands to her elbows so to dislodge her, but, she was faster, faster than him in any case, she slid those palms upwards as she edged closer, her damned gown, useless in the back, slid over her shoulders, over her chest, her lips were parted, her hair wild and curly, she brushed his lips as her fingers collided with his thigh, and as that white hot jolt of desire touched his brain, he did manage to pull away, sliding off of the side of the bed for all of his chivalry.

And she laughed, for a second, before coughing again.

"Lie down," now, he was a great deal more apprehensive when addressing her, he spoke using a more authoritative tone. To his surprise, she didn't disagree, merely lay down flat on her back and covered her eyes with her fisted hands.

"Does it hurt?" He mumbled, she was whimpering slightly, sniffling every once and again, he didn't like it.

"Can I tell you a secret?" She whispered, her voice had remained unfazed, still whispery and softly, ghastly, as though she were being suffocated.

"All right," he agreed with a moment's hesitation, and she beckoned him closer.

"I'm going to marry you." She told him, eyes closed, lips scorching and breath arid against his ear. Then, quite suddenly, she sighed and seemed to fall asleep.

He didn't rely on his mind to formulate a response, so he too remained quiet, contenting himself with watching her as she slept on.

* * *

The act of boiling water was a difficult one, Irma could testify and preach to any audience on that fact now—she'd spent, God only knew how much time, down in the kitchen, collecting wood, moving pots, finally managing to heat the water only to burn her fingers on the handle.

She'd sworn and cursed, finally releasing the anger that had been nibbling at her insides like a swarm of disgruntled bees. She'd cursed Phobos first, because the soot in the kitchen had soiled her pretty toes, she damned her Mother second, for she'd scraped her arms carrying firewood and had accumulated several splinters in the act—the third and fourth were towards those damnable servants and the man upstairs, and that was only because she was assured that only madmen cursed themselves…

Wrapping a rag around her wound, Irma combated both her tiredness and frustration and hauled the pot, along with some other rags, up the stairs, pushing open the bedroom door with her backside since her hands, were otherwise occupied—

They were still there, the two of them, which calmed her only slightly, for, you must understand that somewhere during the towing of the firewood it had occurred to Irma that he could steal Will away if he so chose, drag her off into the night—but no, he was still crouched beside her bed, watching her with that same potent look in his eyes—for it seemed that Will had stopped moving again, rather, she looked paler than ever, her cheeks now a sickening shade of pink, her lips nearly blue…

"Where did you go?" He asked upon hearing the sigh of the old door. She felt snappish, annoyed by his ignorance and his constant disregard towards her.

"I _told _you that I was going downstairs…if you didn't hear me, well then so be it!" She pushed away the artifacts that Will kept on her bedside table away, a few books, an old doll, shoving the saucepan down unceremoniously in the space and then dropping the rags she had thrown across her shoulder into the steaming water.

"Why did you heat it?" He asked, speaking to her as though she were a small child, thus foolish to the world and all that he knew.

"Because she's _sick_," she continued in her frustrated tone, attempting to make it seem that it was he who was the dense one.

"It's cold water, not hot. The hot water is for the congestion, cold water is what you use for fevers…"

She might have thrown it all on him if she had had a better target space; instead she stared at the wisps of steam, watching, dully as they rose and stoked her face and neck, before crumpling to her knees in absolute exasperation.

"I don't know what I'm doing," she confessed, more to herself than to him, but she knew that he must have heard anyway, far beyond the fence of pride she continued, "I wish that they hadn't left me here…I…just want her to feel better so that she can tell me…what I'm supposed to do…" Near tears now, she clutched her knees to her chest and propped her chin atop of them.

He was quiet for a long time, surveying her head from the other side of the bed before stating, "You've been doing…a good job so far."

"You don't have to fib," Irma grumbled, although the small compliment had lifted her spirits slightly.

"I'm not, you've had a bad night, you're confused, it doesn't make you…"

"All right," hiding the smile that had attired her lips, she moved to her feet, brushing off her skirts and wiping her cheeks, "I'm calmer now, it was only a momentary…moment of bewilderment…yes."

He'd stopped looking at her—if he'd even ever started, Will had begun to toss again, clutching at her sheets and arching her body whilst curling her toes. She wasn't getting any better, and it was almost morning…

"Take off her skirt." He spoke again, this time, meeting her eyes for only a brief second when she nearly shrieked "what?"

"There's metal under there isn't there? Take it off so that she can sleep properly."

"Oh," Irma drawled, "well, yes, yes, of course," She moved forward, "go outside…so that I can…"

It was easier said than done, Will had attached herself to his arm, and quite frankly, seemed to be incapable—or rather, _reluctant _to release it.

"Has she been talking to you? Can she hear? Will let go of the man!" he was attempting to pull his hand away from her sister's vice like grip, not being very successful, she only held on firmer, tighter, as though they were taking her life away from her very hands, Irma had to join into the struggle in the end. "I don't like this one bit," she continued, finally prying Will's hand off, and nearly howling in pain due to the success when Will reattached herself to her hand instead.

"She's…afraid…I think. It's the fever," It was more his tone of voice, rather than what he'd said that told Irma that he was frightened too—potentially more so than she…the pause at the end of his sentences, the slight tremor over his vowels—

"You'll only be gone for a minute," she attempted to console his torn expression, just as he had consoled her, she was far less successful, for he only nodded in her general direction, realizing, obviously that he was behaving very silly, and then with one last lingering look at Will's figure, he walked out of their presence, behaving as though he were walking to France rather than to the hallway.

The click of the door, nearly inaudible because the darkness screamed so much louder (the calls of the night cats and the insects, their sing song that was mute in the daytime)—apparently this, perturbed Will greater than anything else thus far, her hand unclenched almost instantly, and before the sigh of relief could even pass through her throat, Irma was facing those slumberous chocolate eyes, wide with terror, they scanned her face, then rolled backwards into her head.

"Irma?" She sounded as though she were in great pain, and immediately, Irma reacted as she knew that she should, primarily with alarm, pure and untouched, "what is it?" she whispered.

"Where…did he leave?" She was breathing rapidly, loudly, as though she had been running; she flinched every so often, causing the bed to shake and her body to shudder.

"Will…calm down, he went outside…he'll be back." She was practically possessed; groaning and kicking, turning onto her side before coughing into her pillows. Irma wanted to hold her, to run her hands along her arms, to assure, or reassure her of her safety—but all she could do was stay absolutely still, watching her as Will struggled to her feet.

"No, Will," Now, she ran to her side, he'd be in here soon if she continued with this noise, surprising that he wasn't here already—Will trashed in her arms until her limbs grew cold, her face wet, her dress slipped off of her slim body—only then did she finally grow tired and laugh, a graceless sound, and fell limply onto the bed.

Undressing her was simple after that, Irma moved as quickly as she could, intending to take as little time as possible. She pulled the hoop over her limp legs, throwing it into the corner before removing the dress and chemise as well. The hunt for some suitable clothing was the difficult part—but after discovering a long, shapeless white flannel dress in the corner of the closet, Irma decided that that would have to do. Dressing her hastily, treating her like one of her many dolls, she then pulled the sheets over Will's body, up to her neck—she was tempted to check for a pulse, but decided against it, that would be confessing that she was worried, and she wasn't, Will would get better, she had to.

* * *

He grew tired of waiting for the door to swing open, the gentle _tick-tock_ of the grandfather clock only acted like an aphrodisiac for his trepidation, which already teetered on the edge of madness. Her sister wouldn't hurt her—no, not intentionally anyways…but there was a naïveté hidden beneath those wide blue eyes, it was hard to discern, he knew because it was currently, concealed by fear.

He suspected that that fear was also reflected in his eyes, on his own face. But there was no helping that…she was fading, the fevers were collecting her just as they had so many others—God he hated sickness…

And then he heard a scream, a subsequent shout and the collision of wire and wall.

It was maddening—he reached for the door, it was locked, well, _what the hell had she locked it for?_ Uttering curses, invocations and finally her name—he moved away finally when the door pulled open before him, revealing the short, hassled looking brunette.

She didn't speak, and so he made a move to push past her, he could see _his_ Will lying atop of her bed, still—so very still, worse then when he'd left her…

She shut the door in his face.

"What?" He stared at the girl incredulously, intending to toss her aside if she dared to look either smug or spiteful.

Rather, she looked…tired. She spoke, her voice low, "You—you realize that the others…they're already gone right?"

He blinked, once, twice, the words seemed as though they were from another world, someplace far off where conversations weren't wracked with whispers and concerns. He finally made a sound, "I-I know…"

Irma nodded briskly, very businesslike all of a sudden, "Why, then, why are you still here? Is this another part of your plan?"

"No…it isn't…I'm…I need to be back in there…" He could simply push her aside, he knew it, as did she, but yet she remained rooted to the spot. Perhaps he should go around, through the passage in the other room…

"She's—very special to me…my closest friend, you understand." Irma stumbled along good naturedly, attempting to convey her thoughts in the simplest of words; she needed to make her worries known—after all, she couldn't very well leave her own blood alone in a room with a lunatic, could she? "And…I…don't wish for anything to happen to her. What…I mean is…what I'm trying to say is, you…you will…take care of her…right?" She met his eyes in what she prayed was a defiant glare, and then fell silent as she waited; she needed to hear it, from his own lips with her own ears.

"If…" he swallowed, watching as the morning swept over her frame, his chest tightened at the thought of her lying there—fragile, helpless, completely transformed by this ailment, he moved towards her, blocked first by the young girl's spread palm, and then by the door, "…she wants me to. I'd like to…"

He looked so dear, his face wrung out from the torment of this night, he loved her—it was obvious, blatant, inescapable; it was written in his eyes, and painted across his face, she could feel it too, the string that tied them both together, the knots that wound from one heart into the other; passing through her as though her as though she didn't even exist.

She moved aside.

"I keep telling you…not to worry. She wants you to…trust me…"

She attempted a smile, a feeble one, yet she knew it didn't matter to him if she smiled or not. The instant she had shifted, he had pried the door open, moving, in a mad rush towards Will's bed, dropping bedside her—

She didn't look anymore. Rather, as the sun swept through the crevices and the windows alike, blanketing the house in light and perhaps hope, Irma decided that her place was in her own bed. Overcome with tiredness, made weak with heavy words, heavy thoughts and even heavier actions, she dragged her weighted feet over to her room, shut her own door, climbed into her own bed, and promptly fell asleep.

* * *

**Author:** I'm sure that I wrote something like this before…I dunno. Forgive me if I did, I write a lot…I loose track sometimes. We're a year old! We've been for a while but, I remembered now, so happy year anniversary to myself and this chaos that I call art. I was such a baby when I started this, and I think that you can see it in my writing style. It'll be interesting to watch this when I'm old and gray.

Lol. And now, drum rolll please. I currently have the longest story in this section. Whoo! Thirteen months in the making! Although Zadien seems poised to claim my title.

Now, how do I put this? Oh well, let me just be blunt. I'm going on hiatus again. I'll post chapter 23 by the end of this month and then I'll go on break until June, just like last year. My, the more things change…

Sorry, but I do need to study. As you can see I slapped some fluff in these two last chapters so hopefully, you can survive the wait. It's only a few more chapters left in any case. About four more as I've got it figured and then an Epilogue.

Review, like you love me. Come on (peer pressure), you know you want to, and besides, all the cool kids are doing it.

Lol.

**Dedicated:** To evilfaerie 17, I don't think that I ever really thanked you for your constant support. And to anyone else who feels like they deserve a dedication.


	23. Chapter 23

**According To Plan **

**By Seniya **

Chapter Twenty Three 

* * *

He stayed with her throughout the eerie smiles of the watchful darkness, past the hours when the shadows grew ravenous—attacking the pools of light that played upon the floors—he held her hand, her fingers curled about his like shards of ice, her breath a slight whisper over her lips, a tiny song of reassurance that Caleb could never grow weary of listening to.

The fever wasn't fading. And such is a grim thought to create in the mist of both night and darkness, for it welcomes fear, that song-less bird, into the fold, and fright, _she_ reaches for such thoughts, and _sh_e gives them limbs and voices—they run with their new legs, far into the backs of minds and they dig, with their new arms, through the piles of emotions and memories in order to discover—those memoirs, long discarded into the subconscious, long deemed unimportant by the psyche.

But are they?

The recollection of that small boy, with the space between his two front teeth and a thousand freckles across his face, a neighbor, a friend, who had lost both his hearing and his sight because of the fever. A man, a solider, whose shoulders were constantly hunched over and whose fingers were twisted in the silent agony of age, who had lost his wife to the fever…

Fear begat trepidation, worry, who puts fear's new voice to use, and screams, and sings, and he watches now, and she tosses and she calls to those who cannot hear her—until he is shaking too.

He wishes to speak to her, words that would soothe, stories that would calm and still her trembling frame, but words were lost to his aggravated mind, only thoughts live in his current state, and he certainly cannot convey to her the images of death with his mouth.

She groaned from deep in her throat, her back arched slightly and once more she kicked off the blankets that have been placed over her body. She whispers his name in that same crying voice and he answers her in his own beaten tone, words of conviction, it is all that he can muster.

And then there are times that the fever passes over, mere seconds in this endless parade of hours that stretch onwards until they reach their limit. They leave much, much too quickly, and are replaced by the cold, her entire skin raked with gooseflesh and shivers, her jaw clenched to stop the chattering of teeth, he finds that he can speak then. For the cold is a much more…preferable bedmate than the heat, in the very least, fear cannot seem to find a memory of death through coldness.

* * *

The sky outside is dressed in blues and pinks and the world outside is stepping into a coat of sounds, of birds singing, winds blowing, the world beginning, rising from the fallen ashes of the night, to once again commence this cycle.

She is coated in the flames of the sunlight, mere shadows of the radiance that could be offered, but it still warms her frigid skin, and for an instant, his tired mind can relax. "I'll…have to make certain that you won't be sick again…" his voice is hoarse, and his mind heavy, he knows that she can't hear him, but it helps to talk—tiredness has arrived with the morning, it scrapes at his eyelids and beats at his limbs, words are his only refuge against such attacks.

"My mother," he states, her eyelids flutter, her fingers move within his, "she…was very ill sometimes. I can remember that."

"I suppose that…it might be the reason that I don't like to…see…I mean…" flustered, he stops, pauses, searches his mind for more eloquent terms before beginning again, "I don't want to lose you. Not you…not like this…I can't even begin to…" A lengthy breath wrought through sheer frustration, he gives fluency up as a bad job, "I'm afraid Will," she smiles in her slumber, not at him, but it warms him nevertheless as he goes on, "I'm…not going to say that very often so…" She releases his hand, it is the first time that she's done so for the night and he can't help but to miss her touch, "Don't frighten me like this…you're too…stubborn to…I mean…"

The shivering had begun again, and she had turned onto her side, away from him, so that all he could see was the occasional spasms of her limbs, the rise and fall of her small back as her breaths came and went.

She seemed so far away now—the few yards that she had drifted seemed like an ocean and he can't truly stand the separation, but he doesn't question it, for long ago he discovered that anything that stemmed from her didn't carry an explanation. "When you're…better…we'll…I mean that…we'll leave. Together…" Now that he'd released it from the prison of self doubt, now that the Gods of the universe had heard it and not condemned him for wanting her, confidence strengthened the stammer, "I left home…a long…years ago, because I was…afraid…again, and because I was…selfish, and young…but you've…stayed…that's amazing to…and I-I want us to…make a home…"

She had started coughing, interrupting his whispered declaration, but he didn't begin again, he'd spoken long enough to himself, when he commenced this conversation again, she'd be listening.

The shivering grew worse over the next few moments, and from the way the she had started twisting around in her small corner of his world, he knew that the fever had returned. Morning was coming now, and illnesses—suffering, were both traits of the dusk, they should have left with the fallen stars and the retreating moon.

His mind offered a suggestion, and his body vehemently agreed. Logic however, and Conscience? Ah, yes there they were, yes, they sided towards the negative. He shouldn't; society, manners and propriety all reached the same conclusion at the same instant.

But—God help him—she was cold. And, propriety couldn't keep her warm.

He—wouldn't stay in the bed with her very long—No, just long enough for the shivering to fade and then he'd leave, undamaged, the both of them. Damn it, she was his responsibility—_and if she was uncomfortable… _

He needed no more convincing, his entire being ached with the desire to touch even the slightest bit of her, and the temptation of being so near to her entire body, well—

Caleb eased into her bed, limbs heavy and heart racing, his mouth had dried up and ever so often whenever the bed protested against his weight, he'd still, waiting for—something, anything to discover him sneaking around, like a blasted thief.

Nothing came, save for the call of the rooster from across the way—the laughter of the winds as their feet slapped against the roof; he slid into the space next to her, feeling the warmth from her body and the perfume from her hair caress his aching soul, a sensation of peace threatened to slip over him but he managed to fend it off; refusing to acknowledge anything but the sense of duty that he knew should be his primary concern.

His hand rose to touch her, but fell away soon enough, for _she_ had edged closer to _him_, the soft sides of her body were pressed oddly against his own flesh; and he drifted away while she stayed still, mumbling something incoherent once, or rather, mumbling something that he couldn't discern over the noise of his racing heart.

It was a simple matter that was ridden with absolute trepidation; indeed he made more than three other attempts before finally draping his hand atop of her waist, he stilled, she didn't, the tremors continued, he felt each and every one of them as they drifted downwards from her neck to her toes—a small army of elephants marching beneath her skin. She coughed once, he drew closer, positioning his arm beneath the shadows of her neck, clasping the lone ribbon of fragrance that welcomed him, sugar, spices—she may have stilled then and he might have moved, ceasing only when he felt her nudge closer. Her bare legs atop of the fabric of his trousers; her skin trembling below his palms…

The remnants of the nighttime were buried through the arms of the angels who heralded the morning, vanquished was the darkness, triumphant was the day break, it coated the heavens in hope and salvation, light, so long a captive was now free to sing…

He was lulled off to sleep them, finally succumbing to fatigue and contentment alike—the sensation of her fading shivers, the whisper of her soft skin—they escorted him into that land of dreams. And soon she joined him there.

* * *

In the realm of muddy unconsciousness, Will swam, struggled truly, like an obese dog through the rivers that were ridden with thick dust. She caught her foot, wood sliced through skin, pain shot through her and she started kicking, thrashing, arms and legs—but, alas, she couldn't quite—no, it was winning, pulling her beneath the dark, glassy surface…

Her eyes opened, her forehead was damp, beaded with marbles of glassy perspiration. And Lord, she felt dizzy—she felt sick, she felt heavy—she couldn't swallow precisely, her throat was clogged, it hurt even to breathe…

Suffering had become her master, and she had learnt to listen well to his calls. She ran her tongue over her chapped lips, moaning inwardly—she'd need to go downstairs and get herself a drink…

It was then, somewhere between the imaging of climbing from the bed and the actual fulfillment of the dream, that she noticed a hand. Not _her_ hand mind you…the hand of a stranger—in her bed…touching her. Will's heart sped up immensely; in fact each and every one of her bodily functions began to race—causing her to feel even sicker than before.

She turned then, more out of panic than true curiosity, for even in her muddled state of mind she couldn't quite convince herself that this particular body part belonged to either one of her sisters.

She was right in her estimation.

It was, as a matter of fact, _him_.

The only _him_ in this world who could make her stomach plummet and then rise again—_him_ in her bed—oh God. Oh shit—what the hell was he doing here? Wasn't he to be married…no, wait, not married…

_Something, _she squinted, trying to dredge up the musty thoughts and words, but found that she was incapable…but something had happened last night, she was certain of it, and she had fallen asleep afterwards, oh yes, that part was very clear, she'd dozed off in the parlor.

Her heart moved oddly within her, causing her entire chest to rattle, still, what was he…in her bed…oh dear…she moved upwards, bending at the waist, dislodging his offending arms, whilst never removing her eyes from his body. Well, at the very least she was clothed—as was he—and yes, _that activity_ (because—naturally, it was the first thing that came to mind) involved beds _and_ nakedness so—at least, she was safe in that regard—

Wait. No, she hadn't been wearing this when she'd fallen asleep…her dress was—well, missing, her corset as well…in fact, she was essentially undressed! Her petticoats, that hoop contraption—no, no, he couldn't have…

Her face reddened suddenly as all sorts of thoughts entered her mind, dizzy once again, she forced herself to lay back down, although this time, further away from him—he, who she turned to stare at as though he were foreign.

Had he been here all night? Her head swam with the memories, of thoughts and words…she could remember, yes, vaguely—but, he'd not been a part of those.

She was jumping to conclusions—who was to say that Irma…or her mother hadn't. But today was the wedding…no, no, not the wedding, she scrunched up her face, head aching with every turn. It had been something important as well…something concerning him…

Her eyes softened, as did her face, he looked so—absolutely so—handsome asleep. Not in the usual way, for he always seemed to carry around this aura of blatant masculinity; but when he was asleep the armor fell away, and now, in her bed (which seemed too small for the both of them), surrounded by her flowery pink bed sheets and frills and lace—he was, she attempted another swallow, well, perfect.

_No one is perfect Will,_ she chided herself. And so she banished such thoughts as soon as she imagined them. She was angry with him as she could remember, he'd broken her heart. He'd caused her pain beyond belief! And he was still—well, as far as she knew—getting married. Today.

She should throw him off her bed! Any concussion and or broken bones that he'd garner would be well deserved.

How did he get here anyway? It still continued to nip at the corners of her mind. Well, obviously, there was something more going on that she could remember—men certainly didn't just appear in your bed. Not in her experiences anyway.

She wanted to touch him—to ensure that he was real—_really real_ that was, and not simply a being made by bits and pieces of her imagination.

What if (she gave into temptation, commanding her hand to drift across the space in between them to touch his nose, she ran her fingers along the side of his face, feeling the way that the whiskers there tickled her skin), what if he'd come to apologize? To say that he'd made a mistake, and that he really truly (she pulled herself closer so that she could absorb his aroma); wanted her…and everything that she wanted to offer him.

What…(she closed her eyes and inhaled, as deeply as she could; the sweet, salty smell of his skin) what if, he'd changed his mind…again. What if he told her that he…lo—wanted to keep her and then decided that he didn't—what then?

_He'd break your heart—again. _

Again. She was sick the repetition. She was sick of feeling this way, he carried in him the ability to give her the world and he refused. She hated him, truly she did. And—God, Will prayed that he hated her back.

It would be better for the both of them is he did.

_He shouldn't be in this bed. _

She touched the firm line of his lips with those wandering fingers, well, one of them should move.

Caleb seemed to have felt her strange caresses, or at least, felt her thoughts, for at that very instant he opened his eyes. And within that shock of emerald she found the memories that she had misplaced—_he'd lied to her_.

* * *

It was the death of words, silence, and the birth of thoughtfulness; of nervousness; it hailed the arrival of apprehension, he who spooned words from the mouths of the uncertain, and buried them in tombs where no one could hear them.

"H-hello," she breathed, nay, whispered, a choking sound, one that made her recall the cries of a drowning man.

He noticed her shivering, the rise of triumphant gooseflesh as they rushed across her skin in waves, "Are you cold?" He asked, still groggy, blinking a few times as though to clear his skittish thoughts.

She nearly gasped at the sound of his voice, but thankfully, the breath had sense enough to stay in her lungs; he watched, spellbound, as her eyes, wide with uncertainty, drifted over to his whilst her lip quivered in the most erratic manner, "N-no," she stammered at last, sighing finally when the words had fallen from her lips, as though this had been a part of some tremendous effort, "I am not cold."

He watched as she shifted—dragged her body away from his—he didn't think much of it, this entire situation couldn't be considered proper, but she seemed to be completely indifferent to whether or not he noticed her flight…

"But," Again he spoke, and so suddenly, she stilled, white fisted, white knuckled, holding onto her sheet, truly, Will hadn't expected him to speak anymore. "You're…shaking…"

"Because, I'm…" _Frightened, panicked, excited?_ "Cold." She looked away, for he didn't seem to believe her.

"But…come, you shouldn't be up yet, you were terrible last night…"

"I have already mentioned to you that I don't appreciate you telling me what to do. I'll sit up if I damn well please." She coughed, and then cursed inwardly, because that one sound had ruined her entire speech and anything that might follow it.

"All right—" Relief, sweet relief mingled with his blood and drenched ice cold gratitude over his flesh, she was safe—alive…her skin still seemed flushed and her eyes remained dull, but she was fine…_breathing_. He resisted the urge to touch her, although he allowed smile's temptation, "I won't…tell you what to do…If I ask then," he suppressed a laugh at her suspicious glower, "If I request that you lie back down."

"You're in my bed." She stated, looking away because his laughing disturbed her tremendously—was he laughing at her? "Get out."

He didn't argue, nor did he obey, in fact he seemed intent on simply disregarding anything that she mentioned and sat up, and stared blatantly at her face.

"Caleb…" She looked away first, choosing to glower at her hands than to initiate a conversation with him.

"You…you're all right?"

Will suppressed a cough by clearing her throat, she continued to frown at her continuing failure—by saying his name she'd hoped he'd get the idea and leave, but apparently he was remarkably daft—and touching her again, she felt his hands on her forehead, watched his other hand attempt to touch her neck…

"Are you hungry? I can…"

"You lied to me." Will remarked, not asking for an explanation, or for a plea of forgiveness, but simply saying the words, making it known to him what she was already aware of.

Silence followed, words, once so eager to parade about the space that separated the two of them suddenly hid in the few shadows that remained, and slowly the music of the room was reduced to the sound of her strangled breathing.

"I want to…we need to talk." He managed at last. "I-I…never lied to you."

She would argue, even though she knew precious little about anything, Will would prove him wrong if it meant that he'd leave her presence.

"I've nothing to say to you. Now go."

"Don't be like this."

"I'm not being like anything."

"Will…"

"Leave me alone. I'm not happy with you, or have you forgotten." She coughed again, making an attempt to leave the bed, but faltering when the dizziness slapped her face and torso, so she settled for sulking at the end of her matress.

"Things are different now, Will—last night…last night I realized that…I can't live without you…the thought of you…I don't ever want to go through that again…"

"Oh just stop it!" Will met his eyes for one, two, three seconds and then looked away, cursing herself inwardly because doing so had caused her blood to heat up, caused her resolve to dissolve. "Don't you even start, in a few hours you'll change your mind…and I won't…well, I can't go through _that_ again."

"I won't…not again. Things are different now."

"Because you've been lying to me."

"Will…"

"No, don't. I don't care, it explains everything. I was just a part of your little plan…it's fine. I should have known better than to actually…"

"I've never lied to you. Not once, not about us. Everything I said, everything I did. I meant it…you make me feel things that I shouldn't, you make me do things that I know should humiliate me…but here I am. Begging you…I love you Wilhelmina Vandom…I do…and I want you…to love me back."

For a long time she managed to tell herself that he hadn't spoken, yes, her mind yelled it, repeated it like the chorus of a nursery rhyme countless times over—yet, her body believed and her heart did too, and there on the tip of her tongue weighting heavily against her teeth, stood the yes, the affirmations that they both wanted to hear. But she wouldn't—she didn't.

"Don't Caleb…" A whisper, she closed her eyes blocking the tears that she'd sworn would never come.

"I do…I can't change it. I've tried…" He was touching her face now, his hands, palms, slightly roughened around the edges, scratched at her face, but she didn't mind his touch truly—in fact, she—rather enjoyed it.

"You can't…it's a mistake. You can't love me." Now, Will had changed tactic, her mind was too weak, her heart was too needy, perhaps—his would be more open to change.

"Don't tell me what I can't do…" He was going to kiss her, and she'd be lost if he did it; she knew it. Her lips burned with the sensation of his breath, he was coming closer, and she instinctively closed her eyes.

"I-I…I'm not pretty."

"What?" That stopped him, and so she took the opportunity to escape from his grasp. Moving even further away until she tittered precariously from the very edge of the bed.

"I'm not. I'm not pretty, and I'm too short and I'm too thin—and you…you should know that…it'll go away. You just need to wait."

He was quiet for a long time, all the while watching her as though she'd sworn at him; finally he spoke, "Who told you all that?"

"No one needed to tell me anything I have eyes. You deserve better…it's the truth."

"I-I…you can't mean those things." If she tried to listen she could hear the underlying anger in his voice—she didn't, but did see something in his eyes that chilled her bones when she dared to look.

"What's the difference? Oh, just leave all right. You're making me miserable." Frustrated by the lack of success, she simply banished him away. Clamping her eyes shut, Will folded her arms across her chest and waited for him to leave her.

"No."

"_Yes_…it took me long enough to decide this. And I don't want to change my mind."

"I'm not…I won't leave. Not until…"

"Fine stay. Stay until my mother comes in here and kicks you out. I'll bet she hates you now that you've ruined her wedding…"

"Your Mother isn't here Will." Was this a trick? She didn't think so, he had paused before he'd answered her, and the note of surprise in his words couldn't be ignored.

"Well then my Grandmother, God I don't care which one."

"She…your sister, Cornelia is gone…she's been kidnapped, didn't you…"

"Kidnapped? Why?" Now, her eyes were wide open, staring at him as though she intended to gut him. Caleb knew why: she thought that he was lying to her. That realization stung.

"I-I don't know…but don't worry, she'll be back soon…"

"How did…" Slowly, the irritation was fading from her face, replaced at first by surprise, and later worry. She was growing whiter by the second, even the rate of her breathing had changed; he made an attempt to reach for her but stilled, recalling her previous rebuttals.

"Will, lie down." As true testament to her confusion she obeyed, falling gracelessly onto the pile of pillows at the top of her bed.

"How, do you know that she'll be back?" She looked up at him for the answer; worry clear beneath the pools of brown—

"She's in good hands…" he stated, knowing that there was no real way for him to destroy her fears.

"So, we're alone here?"

"Irma…she's sleeping, I think."

"Are…you absolutely certain…that she'll be all right?"

"Yes." He wasn't lying, well, not really. Taranee would doubtlessly do everything in her power to find Phobos; he knew that…the only question was if she'd find him in time. Before he could…

He stopped the flow of thoughts, knowing that she was watching him and his reaction, and basing her beliefs off of them. He watched her as well as she absorbed this information, finally deciding that she could trust him enough about this and then rolling over onto her side in order to ignore him further.

However, for all of her sullenness, it was still she who spoke first in this waltz of words, "Aren't you sick of this? Talking, all we ever do is talk…and fight…and…other things…that's not love Caleb, that's..."

"Why can't you accept the fact that I love you?"

"Because you don't." It was feeble, she knew it, but it was all that she had. Even now Will couldn't, wouldn't, allow herself to believe that he truly possessed such a wealth of emotion concerning her. He was lying about this, yes, she didn't know why, but he was…he had to be. "I…I know that you don't…stop saying it…"

"You're scared?" Her heart jumped at that, and she blanched, glad that he couldn't see her or rather, her reaction.

"No, God no…"

"Then give me a reason, an actual reason why this can't work."

Will might have refused, if she hadn't known that her silence would only serve to convince him of the existence of feelings that she still prayed would vanish. "I don't know a thing about you…and you don't know anything about me."

"I know a great deal about…well, what do you want to know?"

"Nothing…I want you to go away…and leave me alone. I'm sick, ailing, what if I'm catching."

"Why are you so stubborn?"

"I'm not! You are, I'm sick, practically dying, where's your sympathy?"

"It left when you started yelling."

"I'm not yelling…Well, so much for love."

"I have never heard of anyone behaving like this because of a confession, do you know how hard that was for me to do? And you don't care at all."

"You're absolutely right…" She chirped, resisting the urge to look around simply to smile with the triumph of her good fortune.

"Doesn't matter that I think that you're beautiful?"

"No…" Will denied, feeling the natural joy evaporate out of her body as her heart shivered, "…it doesn't. Because you're lying, just as you've lied before. And even if you aren't lying, _which you aren't_—you'll just decide that you were wrong and make me...Well never mind what you do…Just go away."

"I-I…Well, it's not my fault that you don't. Why are you taking it out on me?" Caleb seemed angry now, good, she relished in his anger and frustration; if he disliked her then the love foolishness would immediately fade away.

"I'm not talking to you any more; you are the most infuriating man that I've ever met. Any decent man would have said_, all right, you don't love me, I'll move on_. But you only make me suffer."

He cut across her speech with, "I want you to marry me." And she almost choked, her hands shook before her, but she clenched them into tight fists and forced herself to stay calm.

"I said no."

"I want us to have a family, of our very own, because I…" She wasn't hearing this…no, she wasn't. He…couldn't be telling her this; not him—not her.

"I told you; no."

"Because I love you…and I'll say it until you're damn well blue in the face. With you I want everything…and maybe, that makes me the most foolish man in the world, but God help me it's true. And if you felt even half…"

"Why?" The tears were back again, now running freely down her face and plummeting to their despicable deaths in the cotton bedding…

"What?"

"Why me?" The words were raw with emotion, burning because of the pain she was failing to protect herself from; and she was crying again, because of him. Yet, she despised herself much more than she despised him for the entire ordeal. "I mean…look at you…you're…and I'm…you could have anyone, anyone at all, and you want me? Caleb…_no_…you _can't_ love me…"

"Will…"

"Please, just go…find someone else…I can't believe that you…just go."

She had never looked at him throughout the duration of her speech; indeed he wouldn't lay his eyes on her face even now. There was a certain degree of contentment to be found in knowing that he at least couldn't see her, even though she knew that he was well aware of her tears.

"You're smart," he inhaled, slowly, deeply, she flinched at the sound, "…and funny, even when you aren't trying to be…you're brave and strong, you've lived your entire life with these people…and you still care about them. That's amazing to me, just that alone, because I don't think that I could have and…and…you're devoted…and I like the way that you bite your nails…and the way that your eyes look when you're nervous. I like that I make you nervous, because when I'm near you…I'm scared out of my mind…"

She felt the tears swell behind her eyes, she flinched as the heated water flowed along her cheeks, over her nose, over her neck; she heard her heart's first jump for joy, and Will, like she'd known she would, ignored it. "Go. Just leave me in peace."

"God woman…"

"I don't care. I'm awfully certain that I never have, so…there, leave now." She was lying; she was lying and they both knew it, but God help her because she didn't stop.

"So you'll just pretend that nothing ever…"

"I don't care. I don't love you. I can't stand to think about you half of the time." It wasn't working, he was still there and so, she once again changed her plan of attack, "If you love me. If you love me like you say that you do. Then go away. Leave me the hell alone. It's what I want."

The world outside paused, waited with stifled breath for his answer, for his reaction; he spoke slowly, "Please Will, don't do…"

Will had stopped listening; she had stopped crying even, she was simply waiting for him to obey her for she already knew that he would.

There was the tell-tale scream of her bed which heralded his rising. She heard his footfalls, and she counted each one curled up into her tiny little ball in the corner of her world. They stopped soon after, and she was tempted to re-open her eyes to check to see if he had actually gone, but it was the quick decent of lips upon her cheek and the soft hum of his voice in her ear that made her keep them shut. "I…think that you'll realize that I'm just as stubborn as you are." Another kiss, this one near her temple, "and I'm not going anywhere without you."

He left then, with her still in her tiny ball, her heart and soul afire, her mind racing as well as her blood. She knew that he'd gone downstairs from the sound of his feet upon the wood, and it was then she forced her eyes to open.

The world was blurry from her tears, she couldn't breathe; her throat was even more clogged than before. But those weren't the things that worried her—he'd…take her away…he…

She tried to think, to formulate convincing thoughts in her mind but found that she couldn't, rather, all she could hear was his voice, over and over—was she ready to…could she possibly?

"Oh good! You're awake! You see, I told him that you'd be fine." Irma, clad in a nearly fluorescent green dress, hopped into the room, her voice was far too happy for the scenario and Will found herself wishing that she'd simply go back to her business.

"Where is he anyway?" Her large blue eyes drifted to the rumpled sheets and then to Will's tearstained face, "what's wrong with…" and slowly she formulated an answer as only Irma could. "Did you two…I mean…" she clicked her tongue twice…"Because I won't tell anyone I swear, it's just that I though that you were…well…passed out."

"You…" Will's ears perked up at the last bit. "You were here last night?"

Her sister gasped dramatically, pressing her fisted hand against her heart and twirling about so she could come closer, "Oh Will! You're so lucky, Goodness that man is smitten. He is completely bewitched…I wish that I could have someone…"

"I told him to go."

"What?" Irma's jaw dropped initially, but then, once she recalled that this was, indeed, Will, she forced it shut, no, this wasn't surprising at least. "I feel like slapping you right now. Why the…I mean, why on earth would you do that?"

"I-I…oh God Irma, it's so hard for me to just…he wants me to…m-marry him, but I can't…"

"M-marry you! Well, I never once imagined that this would happen…" Upon seeing Will's crestfallen features she retracted her words, "But it's completely wonderful. I demand to be the bridesmaid."

"He lied to me Irma…all of this time. How do I know if he's…"

"Oh stop it. Because you know as well as I do that he's really truly in love with you. I can see it, you can see it, and I know that you don't think that he'd ask anyone to marry him. Seriously, just stop trying to find a reason to say no. Don't you love him?"

"I-I…I don't know."

"Of course you do, you're sitting here clawing your eyes out. Just admit that to yourself first and then go admit it to him."

"You make it sound so easy Irma, but it's not."

"It is. He's right there, all you need to do is just tell him."

"I'm scared." She divulged, sitting up then, wiping away her tears before placing her hands neatly into her lap. "I'll admit it. I know that I won't be a good wife. I've never been a good anything…I can't even think of that word…I don't even look like I could be m-married…"

"Now that's not true. You're a good sister. And you're a good friend. You took care of me when I was unwell, and you got sick yourself because of it. You don't give yourself enough…"

"I don't…Irma…I don't know if I'll be able to be…"

"Well, then look, you'll have to try. What's life if you keep hiding from it? What, do you intend to stay in your room all your life crying over him?"

"No…I…"

"Good. Now, when you declare your love for him, you can't, I mean, you obviously can't wear your nightclothes." Her eyes sparkled with energy, "Wear that pink dress that Mother hates to see you in, I think that it'll…oh wait," she squinted and then stopped, "Have you, heard about Cornelia…Mother and all the others left to…"

"I heard." Will watched as her sister's face grew solemn. "But don't worry…Caleb says that she'll be fine."

"And you believe him?"

"I…suppose that I do."

"See, this is why you need to say yes."

"All right Irma…when I see him next, I'll tell him…" She looked away from her sister, back at her hands, touching the nervousness as it passed through her.

"Good," her sister beamed, bursting with the reflected joy, and turned into the closet, "I do believe that the pink dress will serve our purpos—"

Like a sole demon screaming in a choir of angels, it rang through the afternoon, a gunshot, the massive sound ringing through each crack and crevice until it was so magnified that it crackled against the surface of the atmosphere itself.

* * *

It had taken the magnificent Miss Vandom entirely two hours to discern that those imbeciles that she had been calling traveling companions had been lying to her. Bastards! That little chatty one with the ribbons in her hair had spitefully giggled out the truth after being told that she'd have to remove the real missing girl's dress. Hay fever or whatever it was. Oh you should have seen the looks on that one Susanna's face, how had her son ever married her! Well, she'd never know.

She remembered at first believing that it was because of witchcraft, food poisoning, hypnotism—but no, he claimed something far more incredulous—love.

Well, she wasn't one to live in the past! Certainly not.

She would retrieve her grand-daughter from that hole that she was still trapped within and then take her far, far away from those people. They'd never know, being that they were all far too busy, when she left them driving about in circles, looking for that other one—Cornbread or whatever she was named.

She had been walking for hours, walking for miles, but now, yes she could see the bright outline of the brick structure. It was all worth it in any case. She'd find a way to depart the house with the child, it was for the best.

And besides, any blood of hers deserved the best.

After this, and she smiled broadly to herself at the consideration, she'd never have to give Susanna another cent!

Miss Vandom neared the front of the house with these thoughts in her mind, they fueled her tired limbs onwards, she'd have the house, the clothes, even though she didn't want them…she'd still take them…

It was then that her eyes picked up a figure near the front of her house…a male figure.

What on earth? She moved to duck behind one of the many bushes that little the front entrance, but stopped. It was him!

Oh yes, she knew it now! Had she not been telling those fools that the most sensible move to make was to go back to the starting point? Where no one would be looking!

Instinctively she reached inside of the valley between her bosom to retrieve her pistol. Her husband had taught her how to shoot—she could shoot the eyes off of a sparrow if she so chose. And much too sad for this Phobos character was the fact that someone was looking, someone with a very expensive gun.

Slowly, carefully, she raised the pistol to her shoulder, he paused mid step, perhaps he had heard her, no worries; it would be over soon. She pressed down against the trigger, smiling as the shot rang out across Virginia.

And his stunned body fell to the cobblestone walk.

* * *

**Author:** Surprise. Caleb got shot. Sorry but this was getting a little too happy for me, so what do you do to stir things up? Shoot your protagonist. This is Seniya's writing tip number 34. I goes really well with writing tip number 21, kill off both of your main characters. Although that one might not do so well in this story…hmmm…

Yeah yeah; so next update is in June. (Hides in corner). There are three more plot chapters left. One of which is already written. And the Epilogue. I don't know what made me put Caleb in that bed with her. Sheer perversion, ah yes, that's what did it.

Review please. Pretty please, I don't know how to bribe you guys for comments so…

**Dedicated:** To Zadien. Again. I'm running out of people. Oh yeah, and otakualways, yes yes I remember, and rebel energy. Who has recently informed that Caleb and Will aren't going skinny dipping in her story. BUMMER, you TEASE!


	24. Chapter 24

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

Chapter Twenty-Four

* * *

Slippery, was the earth after the morning's first promising glance, the grasses sweated with anticipation, the trees moistened their limbs, arched their blossoms – upwards – onwards; towards the purple heavens – the morning's urging, pleading cries – assurances of pleasures yet to be received.

* * *

"What was that?" She had jumped to her feet even before the words had fallen from the cradle of her lips. Her heart was already racing; the salty taste of adrenaline had, even then, made a complete cycle through her frame, erasing any lingering feelings of pain – filling her instead with the greasy nectar of expectation. 

Irma seemed less nervous, immune apparently to the fear that traditionally came with hearing thunderous noises that disrupted the peace of day. At first she remained frozen, her pretty face iced over in a mask of surprise – then, in a single instant, it thawed – and she screamed.

"Oh my God!" She hopped past Will only to streak back again in a rush of frenzied colours, waving arms and flouncing curls, screaming saints and angels all the while. Somewhere past Michael, before Peter, she had managed to calm herself enough to make it to the massive bedroom window and crane her neck outside. "It was a gunshot Will!"

"I figured that!" Her voice was still hoarse, and now, her legs were weak and wobbling from the weight of the saddle of fear that had attached itself to her back, Will couldn't even attempt to mimic her sister's exuberance, rather, she had to settle for a soft spot near the edge of her bed and a face filled with apprehension.

"Can you see who did it? Was it one of the neighbours?" Hope, arid hope. And words that she didn't believe – even then, the truth, even the invisible one, seemed far more morbid.

"N-No…" Irma edged further outside, standing on the tips of her toes and using the windowsill as leverage – muttering a stifled _ouch_ when her head collided with a tree branch. "It's your…Grandmother. Yes, I can see her…Lord she's massive."

"I thought that she'd left…Did _she_ get shot?"

"No, she has the gun in her hand. She has very veiny fingers I had never noticed…It must have been her…who…W-Will…"

"What is it?"

Face white, fingers trembling; eyes wide, and lips pulled tight over teeth to withhold—words, obviously—Irma retracted her head, lowered her gaze and whimpered something that was completely disjointed.

The fear grew, eating away at the noises in her mind, the rushing blood, the trembling heart, the cold, wet feeling of dread – "What is it?" She repeated.

"Where…Where did you say Caleb went?"

* * *

It was pain, genuine pain that clawed about mercilessly at the base of her ribs. This was grief – sorrow mingled with the essence of cold, dry fear. This was the sensation that had blurred the world about her, this was what made reality so much more of a mere word and not the tangible earth itself. This was what created life from the dark shadows that haunted the caverns of her mind – it was grief that whispered enticingly to her frozen form, words : gone, death, alone. 

_He was dead._

It was a cold echo of a sentiment that echoed wickedly through her mind as she somehow found the sudden strength to leave the edge of her bed.

_He was dead._

They were words, letters, sounds that held no meaning at all. These things could never, not even in the most infinitesimal worlds, convey the wild, gnawing suffering that ripped her heart wide open, leaving it vulnerable to the horror and sorrow that had already vanquished the remainder of her body.

_He was dead._

Dead. Dead. Dead. And it was her fault. She had sent him away, because she had been too stupid – too afraid – to selfish and—

"Stop Will! Will!" Irma's voice came from somewhere off behind her, hands reached out to hold her, but she peeled them away.

"Will! Stop it! You…Y-You're sick…you can't Wilhelmina!" But by now, she had already reached the front door, by now the words and sounds and feelings had slithered together, ending unceremoniously in a groan at the edge of her lips.

She never made it past the door frame.

Crimson iron, matted across the thirsty earth; a dark, deep curtain, one that should never hide the elegance of human flesh, painted across his torso – a soundless instant, a noiseless cry, and then, only darkness pouring through her yearning body, filling up her empty soul.

_He was dead._

* * *

So perhaps she wasn't as good a shot as she had imagined. Or perhaps her more than obvious miss was due to the fact the bastard had moved. She sucked in a long blast of air between her teeth, causing a low sound that cried frustration to hiss through her lips. 

Well, never mind. She had still hit him. Oh yes, even from her vantage point more than a few meters away, she could make out the refreshing coat of blood that coated his torso. Beautiful.

Vengeance was sweet.

And perhaps her granddaughter hadn't been kidnapped by some sort of demonic mad man; but regardless, it still felt wonderful to drive a bullet through someone who had warmed the bed of Mrs. Susanna Vandom.

Besides, even if he hadn't kidnapped Wilhelmina, the fact that he had been left with her _unaccompanied_ for an entire night – well, it was absolutely enough for a death sentence in her mind. One through castration of course, since it was well known to her that men had no hearts, no consciences – save for the one source of ethics that lay between their legs.

She'd get her prize yet. Struggling over the pain in her back and the tightness in her knees, she removed her large frame from her bushy sanctuary. Fully intending to send him to the afterlife within the hour.

It was then, as she refilled her pistol with another bullet, that she heard the screaming.

The chubby girl, oh yes, no else had a voice of such – distinct quality (she was such a finicky child too), undoubtedly, she had heard the first shot and then maybe stolen a gander at the sight of the man sprawled half dead across the walk and decided that the best route to go about was yelling, shrieking and then running – straight out of the house in a dress that could render a man sightless due to its mighty fluorescence.

"Miss…Vandom…don't…don't shoot him." She gasped and sputtered, bending over and gulping air before grabbing hold of the woman's coat so as to stop herself from keeling over.

"Stand aside girl!" She pried the offending fist off almost immediately, truly disgruntled, as any hunter would be have been once separated from their prey. "And what in the hell is wrong with you…protecting that criminal…he who lays a hand on my family, well, the bible said it best, an eye for an eye…" It was then that she dipped her eyes so as to survey Irma's appearance, taking in the flushed face and rumpled clothes to mean something despicable. "I suppose he's already demoralized the both of you, well, he'll pay for that!"

"No…no…" Irma made a valiant move to step between the gargantuan woman and the young man, "no he…it isn't like that." Any pride that her heart may have collected at her recent bravery faded however when Miss Vandom (obviously mentally unwell) shouldered her pistol once again, "For God's sake woman, don't shoot me!"

"Where's your sister. Bring her out here. It's good to iron a woman's stomach."

"Will…" Realizing that this might be her one chance to save everyone involved, she pointed towards the doorway. "She's fainted."

"What?"

"Oh yes, the sight of blood in her current condition it was too much for her to bear." Irma embroidered on quickly, "she truly couldn't bear the sight…"

"Couldn't bear," The peace that had so happily warmed her limbs over the last few seconds quickly vanished as the look on Miss Vandom's face soon changed from confusion to outright anger.

"Why? What is this nonsense about you two protecting this fiend? After all that he has done to this family, I'd imagine that you'd at least be grateful!"

"N-No." Fearing that the woman would again begin shooting, Irma rushed on into an…altered version of events, "He's our neighbour's…cousin's…brother's…friend's uncle's…nephew…and he is our close, dear, personal friend."

"I see."

"Oh yes, and last night, upon hearing of our situation he rushed over to guard us. And now, you've shot him…and will surely hang." The idea that Caleb had been shot certainly didn't affect Irma like it would normal people. After all, heroes were shot all of the time in her hordes of romantic novels – they never died. It was merely a temporary inconvenience.

"I see…and are you then, attempting to convince me that this man isn't this Count Phobos?"

"Exactly," Chirped the honeyed haired girl. "Do you see now, this is all a misunderstanding…" But the woman had already wiped her pistol clean, removed the bullet and tucked the weapon safely back into the valley of her bosoms; all while Irma stared and spoke.

Then, with naught but a shrug in Caleb's general direction, she stomped off towards the main house.

It took Irma another few seconds to recover from that one, then, when she finally found her voice, she screamed, "Well, aren't you even going to help him?"

"Have his family do it! I am preoccupied with taking care of my own." Came the brisk reply. She hadn't even missed a beat.

"But…we can't. I mean…his family will be most upset if we had him here as our chaperone and he was injured."

"Ah, you see, but if he was here to guard you then he was truly, risking his life. And injury would have been at the very least anticipated. Simply tell them that he was injured in the line of duty and all will be…"

"I-I…" This was going badly. Even in her romantic readings, the heroes always had a physician or at least—their love interest—who was always the daughter of a physician – to attend to them. Caleb, so far, had neither.

"I won't lie. Sister Miriam at church says that God hates liars most of all…and I won't rot in hell for this!" The irony of the situation did strike her – here she was pouring more fibs out of her mouth than her mother did when she went to confession – but it was for a good cause. She was, in this case, a noble liar.

"And besides," She added now with a certain degree of flair known only to those who inhabited Virginia. "It isn't southern."

"Southern?" The woman scoffed, and Irma stiffened as her large, bright eyes met her own, "you hypocrites who rear men like horses? Driving God's own creation across your plantations only because of the colour of their skin! Southern?"

"Yes…well…" Irma flinched as the woman drew closer, backing away from her as she had truly begun to fear that she might do her bodily harm – "Regardless…we are still…neighbourly."

Now, the woman snorted and laughed as though it was all some excellent joke, Irma was so stunned that she was sorely tempted to join in, but the noise ended nearly as soon as it had started, and once again, the brunette found herself cowering in the coldness of Miss Vandom's shadow.

"Fine then." She spat, "I'll take him to his family."

"What…" Her mind churned, wheels spun as well as thoughts and excuses, yet only one came out. "They…aren't…home. And they're drunks. He's the only good one. Oh please Grandmama," She ignored the woman's bleak facial expression at the endearment, "Do let him stay here with us…until he is better."

"I don't see what good it'll do him. He needs a physician, a good one at that. I may have missed my target…but I hit something. He hasn't moved since." You would have had to be deaf to have missed the note of pride attached to the words.

Irma chose not to dwell on it.

"Fine," she relented, moving away again, back to the house, to where, Irma suspected, Will still lay, sprawled in the foyer. "Take him up to one of the guest rooms then. If you clean the wound, then he might not die of infection. And when his drunken, no good family returns, perhaps you should tell them something about this situation."

* * *

Blood was a lot darker than she'd imagined it would be. And truthfully, she had retched twice before she'd finally discovered the strength to kneel a good four meters away from Caleb's body. He was turned away from her, lying on his side, his arms folded limply at the front of his body. Truly, it was the best that she could do, and it was only Will's best interests, and not her own that she was suffering through this – mainly because she knew that if her – beau like friend – had been shot by her grandmother, blind as she was, Will would never hesitate to help. 

"Mister…err…Caleb?" He wasn't moving. But he wasn't dead either, no, Miss Vandom had been intending to shoot him again, and she had said that she'd missed her target. He wasn't dead, just bleeding.

Still too chary to journey too close to the blood, and as a result, him, Irma scampered off to find a discarded hoe someway off in the garden. Upon her return, she then proceeded to prod him in the back with it, certain that that'd garner her some of his attention.

It did.

"Stop it." He groaned, but of course, although she heard, she didn't understand.

"Oh yes! You're awake again!" But of course she didn't cease her prodding, moving instead to poke at his bum, just because she felt like it.

"I said stop it!" His voice was still husky, but clearer now. And Irma dutifully dropped her hoe.

"Caleb, it's Irma. Will's grandmother shot you good."

She had a knack for stating the obvious that one did. But he suspected that he owed her his life, for it seemed that as flighty as she was – she could talk her way out of the gallows.

Of course he was well aware of the unspeakable pain that held its origin near his stomach: a gunshot wound: a damn excruciating one.

He'd been shot before, although then, it'd been in his arm by a well trained solider. Now a woman had wounded him, one who was more than twice his age. It was easy to say that this time, pain included, was the worse of the two.

It'd made sense to stay close to the ground then, being unarmed himself (a fact that was due entirely to Taranee confiscating his pistol)—and so it had come about that he'd also heard the entire conversation as well, lying here with his teeth gritted against the stringing pain, his dagger clutched tightly in his fist, waiting, simply waiting for the moment that she came near him so that he could knife the bitch in her foot.

"So you're…all right then. I mean, if I were to forget about all of the blood and dirty things."

"Just perfect."

Sarcasm was lost on her. "Oh good. I was wondering how I would tell Will that you'd died. I had decided that a letter would be best…"

"Where is she?"

"Will's inside, she collapsed…again. Do you see now what I was telling you? She's always fainting and being sick. If only you'd listened to me, you wouldn't have been shot. Although you might have…who knew that she was returning? She would have killed you for certain if she'd found you in Will's bedroom—"

Seeing now that no valuable aid would come from Irma's being there, Caleb forced himself onto his back, biting back that groan that surfaced.

"Are you going to try to stand? I'd help…but I don't want to touch you. It doesn't seem very romantic with you looking so pale and sweaty."

"It's all right Irma. I'll manage." His stomach turned violent at the notion of standing and, if possible, the pain in his side doubled. But he did manage, swearing and blaspheming all the while, to stagger to his feet.

Once there, he swayed with the winds, although Irma did attempt to cheer him on, one time even retrieving her trusty hoe to offer it as a type of walking cane. He refused it.

"Well, you didn't have to throw it like that." She huffed. "It's amazing to me that you still have strength left to toss things. She must not have shot you right." And then, giving in to the mountain of curiosity, she drifted closer, "I've never seen a gunshot…move your hand I want a peek!"

There would be no peeking, for he seemed to be incapable of removing his hand from his offending side – and there was a lot of blood.

A lot.

Swallowing the disgust and reducing the shiver in her limbs to a mere shudder, Irma once again forced herself nearer to his frame, tucking herself beneath his arm, and wrapping her slim hand about his waist. She wasn't very strong, and she doubted that her presence did him a bit of good. It was more of a sentiment anyways.

"She says that I'm to take you to one of the guest rooms and tend to you there. Now, don't put your face like that, I've read a lot of books on gunshot wounds. Now, where do you suppose we can retrieve some moon flowers to stop the pain?"

* * *

The strange gold light that filtered through the elegant window came from the afternoon sun. Will realized, not the morning, not the midday, the afternoon. She'd slept through the majority of the day…stifling a yawn, she sat up in her bed, feeling stronger than she had in a long time. Her head no longer ached and the scratchy feeling in her throat had all but subsided. 

Wiggling her toes comfortably, Will sank deeper into her blankets and pillows, pillows that someone had so gratefully placed about her, and waited for the angels of sleep to make her theirs…

She had been participating in a most wonderful dream before she'd been forced awake by the dreadful sun—

_Oh God,_ her chest sank, her blood went cold in her veins…and for an long instant she was certain that someone had replaced her nice warm blood with frigid ice water.

Caleb.

Gone was the dream, the whispers of the winds and the embrace of the darkness. Here was the reality, the memory that was soaked in truth – he'd been shot. He was dead.

And it was entirely her fault.

Her mind wasn't functioning properly…now that the sadness that slipped through the empty chambers in her head, she didn't know how to correctly deal with grief. She couldn't cry, couldn't move or scream, merely lie there, eyes and face blank, lips taut as for the umpteenth time the phrase slapped through he assaulted mind: he was dead.

Perhaps—she could cry—perhaps she should. Now there was a tenderness at the base of her heart, and it bubbled and hissed and burned, unrelenting in its manner even when the first tear slipped past her guard.

"Wilhelmina." The voice was unmistakeable, dark and deep like a man's, Will found herself revolted at the baritone – angered by the presumption – murderess – oh she'd pay. Her mother had always been disappointed at Will's tendency to be violent, but for some reason, she felt that she'd actually make a good, proud mother if she tossed the hag down the stairs.

"You!" Her voice was strong, and for that she was grateful. Something, earthly or not, had relieved her of her sickness, obviously so that she could exact revenge on this—her! "You've killed him!"

Her voice was raw with pain, cold with grief, and she heard it all, every trembling syllable and shattered pause, yes, thought the older woman to herself, there was much more here than what met the eye.

It didn't matter that she was more than three times her size; that was the least of her worries. God would forgive her, she knew – she was only saving the executioner the trouble.

"Caleb!" She spat at her at last, "you shot him you dirty old woman!"

"I did." She muttered, "but rest assured, I didn't kill him."

"You're lying." Ignoring the relief that could so easily reduce her blazing anger to one solitary glow; Will continued to stare at her grandmother as though her eyes alone could cause her to burst into large orange flames.

"I'm not. He's with your sister as we speak. Let me apologize for what has transpired here Wilhelmina," She paused then as the girl's face stilled substantially, watching, alert for all that would pass over it, "I had no idea that he was a close, personal, family friend – my apologies. I was under the impression at the time that he was Phobos."

"He…he isn't dead." Will had jumped to her feet sometime throughout the exchange, she supposed so that she could look more menacing at her mere five feet and two inches—but now, the combination of sweet reprieve and fragrant hope left her visibly weakened, and she once again slumped to a sitting position at the base of her bed.

"I want to see him." Will felt suddenly weepy – silly to feel so, she decided, now when the worst was all but over. He was fine; she'd see him again, touch him and hold him –

"If you'd be so kind Wilhelmina. Your sister did explain to me some things… but she didn't quite…clarify the young man's relation to your family. What was he doing here?" It was like seduction, Miss Vandom decided, and so she spoke to suit. The girl was like a lamb, a small tender animal, which could be so easily startled if she rushed at her. She may have been past her prime, but it didn't take a genius to discern that this 'friend's, neighbour's…something or the other' was something else – something far more interesting. And she intended to find out just what that interesting was.

"Caleb?" Will turned to look at the massive woman, whose girth alone took up her entire doorway. She didn't look very menacing however, despite her size; in fact, if Will really attempted to, she could just see some lines cut into the soft skin around her eyes. Will decided to think that she had laughed them there.

"Well…" She bit her lip, feeling embarrassed and more than a little giggly at the thought, at the realization of what she was about to say—"He's my…fiancé." And there it was, bursting through her veins and through her heart, that sweet, strong, honey-like warmth – happiness, pure unadulterated joy.

Suddenly, she felt weepy again. She'd come so close to loosing him. He, who was more precious to her than anything else; she needed him, wanted him, more than breath, more than food or water – she simply knew, just as all heartsick bride-to-bes simply know, that if she had him, there would be no cause for anything else.

The sensation was fleeting.

"He's your _what_!" The anger behind the voice made Will startle, truly, she hadn't been expecting that. One look at her grandmother however, warned her that this was merely the tip of the mountain…as the woman was practically seething.

"Tell me! What is this? Another one of your mother's ridiculous ideas? Marry you off, is that it?"

"No…" Completely taken aback now; Will could scarcely find her voice, "my mother doesn't know anything about it. He asked me…and I…I intend to tell him yes."

It seemed amazing to her, even in that bright rush of confusion, that an event that caused one person so much pleasure, should cause another such righteous anger.

"Oh, the hell you shall. This…this isn't right." She had taken to pacing now, for all the good that it did her, with her long legs she could easily make it to one side of the room and back again in little more than four paces. "For God's sake child." She paused near the foot of Will's bed, eyes dilated; face moist and slippery, almost like a fish— "Fiancé? Fiancé? You should thank the heavens that I haven't chopped off his neck just for that! You…you're young, this is an error in judgment, and you can't marry him…"

The anger in her loins started slowly, truly, the happiness that still lingered there steadied the transition a bit, but, alas, couldn't eradicate it. "You…you don't have any right to tell me what I can't do…who I can't marry…"

"You're already engaged." She interjected, and just like that, with that one effortless phrase, her world stood still on the back of time.

"No…no…I'm not." Well, of course she wasn't. She was meant to be a spinster, yes, she'd always known—Caleb was the first, the only one who had ever shown her even the slightest—she was lying. Obviously.

The choice to argue on further was taken away from her however, when her grandmother began to speak again, rushing into an explanation that banished the doubt from her mind. "There is a man in France, a close friend, fifth in line to the English crown, he's been inquiring about you…we were to leave this week. We _shall_ leave this week."

The anger was broiling again, steaming and screaming in every fibre of her being. It explained everything, this did: the sudden appearance, the overwhelming concern—Will scoffed; her mother was right in her description. The woman was evil.

"It doesn't matter…I don't care, I'm marrying Caleb the second that he feels that we can and that's all there is to it." If she thought that she was the only person who could be tenacious, then her grandmother was surely mistaken.

"I won't be ruled by you child. I've seen it before." Will looked away from the face, but the words, no, she couldn't hide from those, "what, does he tell you that you're the most beautiful woman in the world, that he loves your smile and that you complete him?"

She didn't trust herself to speak then; the anger beneath her skin was by now, something tangible, a large, red-eyed monster, with naught but destruction on its conscience. And if she dared to open her mouth and release it onto this world—she knew that she'd come to regret it.

"A thousand times Wilhelmina! It isn't women alone who marry for money!"

"That's not…you don't know him!" She'd had enough, she was sick of just listening. Even with the taste of fury clinging to her throat, this woman's words made her feel helpless.

"What does it matter? Your father was the same way. Coming to me with stars in his eyes chirping on about that whore of a woman!" A dry coughing sound suddenly overwhelmed her grandmother: a laugh, devoid of any true humour. "And look at what love did to him, she left him when he was on his death bed! She married another mere months after his death! And now…you want me to bear that again. I refuse!"

"Why can't he think that I'm beautiful? Why can't he…" Because it isn't true, because she's right, and you know it, you've always known—_No, no. It isn't true! He loves me, I believe him and I…I…_

"The Duke is a very kind man. He can take care of you. You have fine blood, as does he. Think of your family. Think with your head!"

_And I love him back. _"I am!" Will stated, the misery and fury tightened her throat and made speaking nearly impossible, but she managed. "If you don't want to help us then just leave. Irma and I will…well…we'll have to…"

"You'll do what! You'll kill him with infection."

"You can go to hell." Once on her feet, Will felt stronger, more determined, "the fact is that you don't care about me. It doesn't matter to you if I'm happy or not. But it matters to me! That's my decision. He makes me happy…and that's enough."

Calmly, coolly, her grandmother nodded, and then, as though she were reciting the recipe for lemon pie, she told her granddaughter to her face, "I won't get a physician for him. He'll stay in that room until the metal poisons his blood, and I assure you Wilhelmina, your definition of happiness will change in the face of Gangrene. I always get my way child; I'm too old to get anything else. You'll see."

"Get out of my house!" Will snapped, all the while forcing her mind to concentrate on something a great deal more pleasant. Caleb wouldn't die; he couldn't—not when she'd only just found him. "I'm going to see him."

And she stomped out with her nose in the air and her mind set, a habit that she'd picked up from Cornelia over the years. There was another one; her sister was still missing, and that toad of a woman, well, wasn't she supposed to be helping her mother find—

She had, briefly considered for a second perhaps, exactly how she'd find where Caleb was being kept. There were many empty rooms in the house, and Irma had a tendency to be eccentric, perhaps she'd put him up in the attic, just for romantic reasons that only she could establish—but now, Will wondered no more.

She had seen blood before, of course she had. She was familiar with its texture, its colour—but this—this was different. This was everywhere. It pooled in large circles over the stairway, it smeared across the hall, and some of it was even on the walls.

Chubby angels, their smiles darkened with the bitter taste.

The fact that it was _his_ blood—_his_ blood that belonged _inside_ of him. Didn't aid the matter either. Rather, it sickened.

* * *

Her heart was trembling again when she found the room that Irma had taken him to. It hadn't been difficult, like _Hansel and Gretel_ before her; she'd simply followed the trail of crimson, moving with heavy head, heart and feet, towards the voices that she could just make out in one of the empty spaces near the back of the house. 

It was worse than she feared. Remarkable, even then, because she did, truly, fear a great deal. She'd pictured him coated in blood, of course, that vision she had steeled her stomach against, and perhaps, she had imagined that he'd be pale, sweaty, feverish, and those she was accustomed to from her own experiences. But this.

She'd arrived silently, refusing to mutter even the smallest sound, not because she didn't have anything to say, but because she couldn't say anything. He was swimming in blood. Irma was hovering above him, yelling at him to explain some matter to her even when it was evident that he had long lost the ability to yell back.

She'd removed his shirt, balling it into a makeshift rag, which had already become hard and brown with blood. The sheets were covered in it as well, Irma's green dress—the front of it—all over, her hands—the floor.

If she had eaten anything for the day she would have lost it…her mouth was already filling with water.

And his face, oh God, that was the worst of all—but she couldn't look away from his dull, glazed eyes, his white, sallow skin—and Irma, if anything, looked worse off than he did.

* * *

Will removed herself from their presence nearly as silently as she had entered into it. She couldn't think—confused, yes, she was much too confused and frightened. She had never known that it could be possible to feel so much; sad, afraid, happy—but she had, she still did. All of these feelings, the magnificent ones as well as the horrific tumbled around in her body, leaving her wounded in ways that she had never thought possible. 

But she didn't cry. Not a sound, not a tear. Tears wouldn't heal him, and she already knew what she must do to help him. Salt water wouldn't do to fix that either.

But she could rest, and she could wait for her mind and her heart to calm, to steady. When she faced that woman again she intended to be stoic, she couldn't show an ounce of weakness for her to exploit—but could she, really, erase all of the signs of a broken heart?

* * *

Will could, and she did, facing her grandmother, with dull, lifeless eyes and a mouth that seemed to be carved from stone. "What is it that you want me to do then?" Her voice was low, as again, the scratchiness that had plagued her for so long, had returned with renewed gusto. 

For her part in this play, Miss Vandom seemed to be anticipating Will's return. Truly, she had propped herself up quite comfortably in a nearby chair, amusing herself by fidgeting with some of the trinkets that Will kept on her table. She took her sweet time speaking as well, "I will help this boy Wilhelmina. If…you come to France with me."

Had she expected anything else? "Grandmother…fine, you have an agreement."

"Now come child, don't look so dour. It is for the best." The chair creaked as she rose, as did the floorboards.

"Whose best?" Will muttered, surprised then when she noticed that her grandmother had heard it.

"Everyone's."

"I love him." She blurted it out, secretly disgusted with herself for showing the weakness that she'd been determined to hide as well as for allowing the first person to hear her confession of ardour to be the one person who was determined to stop it. "I love him more than anything…anyone. And you can't stop it. Even if I marry that puppet, I won't love him."

"What is this child? Puppy love? It won't last. How long have you known him?" Her yes smouldered once again; her voice was rough, yet low, "has he explained to you where you'll go after you're wed? Where you'll live? What's his family's name? How many children does he want? Can he even give me a decent heir! Love is a word Wilhelmina, and it loses meaning if you're starving!"

"Well you shot him before he had a chance to explain very much to me, didn't you!"

She clucked her tongue at the remark, but didn't respond directly to the Will's harsh words. "Very wise decision my child. But I'm not foolish enough to take your word on it. My son made me the very same promise and then he eloped. Of course…I doubt _he'll_ be going anywhere with you."

"I said that I'd go. Just bring the physician…and I swear it…on my father's grave…I'll go with you. I'll keep my word."

And that was it. She'd sold her soul, her happiness, her heart, and she didn't even have enough emotion left in her body to feel regret for it.

* * *

Miss Vandom, did of course, possess enough dignity as a human being to feel some sort of remorse at the blackmail of her granddaughter. There was no doubt in her mind that the girl felt that she was in love. And it was of course a pity that she would have to be separated from the object of her desire so soon—but then again, it was perhaps for the best. Heartbreak would fade, and soon she'd learn the pride, if not the love involved in marrying well, in assuring your family a good name, a proper lineage. 

Especially now, in these difficult financial times.

Her husband's money wasn't all gone, no, she'd made certain of that. She'd wrapped up more of that money in Wilhelmina's name than the poor girl could ever know. It was necessary, taxes in England were ridiculous. And she'd be damned if she went to the poor house due to taxes.

She needed her now, in France. She needed her courted, wedded and bedded—in no specific order, just as quickly. For without the protection of the monarchy itself, the Vandom family would soon find itself in ruin.

She'd explain it to Wilhelmina as well. Soon. As soon as she'd put this love nonsense behind her, as soon as she had borne the Duke his heirs, then, she'd explain it to her, the burdens of women…she'd understand.

The afternoon air was dry and warm; it was also thick with the notion that summer was here, the smell of flowers and grasses, of animals and sweat. Of freedom.

There was still blood on the walk, Miss Vandom discovered, but she didn't stop to clean it, there'd be time for that later—

Much later, when she was back from the town with this blasted physician in tow. This blasted physician who had better work miracles on this boy…if not, well, she doubted Wilhelmina would be very forgiving about being kidnapped.

* * *

The stables were empty, she discovered, and then vaguely she recalled knowing that already—last night, of course. In all of the excitement her memory was fading. 

Still, she was upset at the waste of time and she hurriedly backed away from the half-opened muddy doors, only to pause as her eyes caught a glimpse of something familiar tossed in the mud: it was her pearls.

The same ones that she'd given Wilhelmina to wear last night.

She bent to retrieve them almost immediately. She doubted that the girl had even realized that they were gone. The clasp in the back was damaged, but not beyond repair.

And…oh yes. A slow thought drifted across the misty forms in her mind…_oh yes_. Now this would fix everything. Wilhelmina wouldn't need to go to France with a broken heart any longer.

* * *

Will didn't allow herself to dwell in her unhappiness for too long. There was much to be done, and as she suspected, by the time she had arrived in the bedroom where Irma and Caleb were occupied, the former was in tears, the latter, in a silence befitting a corpse. 

"Oh G-God…" Irma sobbed, her hands were covered in blood, and large fat tears were streaming along her chubby pink cheeks. "Will, I've…t-tried, but…he isn't talking anymore…and he has a fever…"

"It's all right Irma." Will walked in with steady feet and when she wrapped her arms about her sister's trembling frame, her hands were far stronger than her heart was, and for that, she was thankful. "You can go get cleaned up now, I'll take care of him until the doctor comes."

"A doctor? Really? H-How'd you get…"

"It doesn't matter. Go on now."

She didn't need any more prodding than that. Still, shivering, coughing and sputtering, Irma retreated from the room, leaving Will alone with Caleb, with the perfume of suffering thick about them.

* * *

She stared at his ashen face for as long as a time that she could without breaking down. She'd sworn to herself that she'd stop crying; it was a useless activity, meant for widows and babes. And she was neither. 

He had a fever. His skin was moist to the touch, but not cold…she wished that it would be cold.

Wishing was no good either. Praying was useless. But if she could, if she could wish and pray, then it would be for an ailment that she could kiss away. And again, she pushed the tears away.

"Well, leave it to you to go get yourself shot." She scolded, all the while tearing the linens that Irma had stacked on the floor into strips. "I'll have you know that the minute that you're healthy again…I'll give you a long, hard slap."

He didn't reply…and twice Will bent low to ensure that he was still drawing breath.

He was, as shallow and as pained as it sounded, he was.

But she had long lost the ability to feel relief.

Feel anything but the wild raw emotions coursing through which her left her breathless with fear—always, always there had been unbridled panic where he was concerned, fear for the safety of her fragile heart, fear of rejection and later the fear of being left alone…selfish things…

But the minute, no, the mere second that the shot rag out across her mother's fields, pierced through the Saturday and slapped at her soul; she suddenly knew of the existence of a far greater panic—fear for him…

She forced herself to peel away the stack of cloths that Irma had padded against his side. The blood was dry, old; indeed, he'd stopped bleeding now. The wound had swollen instead, to an angry pink colour, its edges were white and slippery, its insides damp, there were hints of green along his side, a promise of the suffering to come.

Her hands were shaking again, her heart, a pained shuddering in the depths of her sorrow. But she didn't stop. She couldn't simply leave him because she was too weak.

"You'll be all right." She murmured to his immobile body, only once bending to bestow a soft kiss on his cold lips.

She checked for an exit wound—but didn't find one. It was still inside then, the bullet that was, and the doctor was the only one who would be able to remove it.

After deciding that, quite honestly, there was nothing for her to do, she took to washing the wound, taking care to allow the streams of white water to pour from it, and mopping at his brow while muttering apologies into his deaf ears.

"And I'm sorry that I called you a jackass…all those times. I-I didn't mean it. Well, I mean, I may have meant it then, but I don't anymore."

And then, quite suddenly, there was nothing left for her to do. So she began to talk, because the silence in the room combined with the dark gold of the afternoon just barely making its way through the window frustrated her to no end.

"Caleb…I-I…I've never said it before…I don't even know if I know what it is." She imagined him awake, staring at her with his startling emerald eyes, his skin tanned and healthy, ignoring of course, the fears that crept about inside of her, playing hiding games with her confidence and pride, "But, I do…I do know how you make me feel," She touched his cheek, his nose, his hair before daubing a dry cloth across his forehead. "Inside…of me…I mean…and no…umm…"

Oh she intended to tell him everything before she was forced to leave with her grandmother. Then of course, he'd help her formulate a plan to escape the woman's clutches, Will had promised to leave, but God knew that she hadn't promised to stay.

"Well, I can't explain that either…so I don't know Caleb, if it is…but I want it to be…I truly do…I…"

It was with a start that she was brought to the realization that his green eyes were no longer a fantasy. "Well then Miss Vandom, I suppose that I love you too."

She was simply overcome, with joy, with sadness. "You're awake?"

"It depends," he breathed, his voice low, his eyes still dull, but he was still speaking to her, "is Irma gone?"

"You jackass!" Oh heavens she was grateful, "You…you had me so…I thought…Oh God…" She buried her face in her hands because she didn't want him to see the sea of tears.

Caleb didn't want for her to worry, although, she did look most ravishing when concerned, with her sultry lips parted and her misty eyes wide; the golden glow of the evening lighting her fallen scarlet locks. "Will…I'm sorry I worried you…but it…hurts to talk and…"

"I know…I'm not blaming you…" She looked up then, cheeks wet, lips swollen, offering him a weak smile, which he gladly accepted. "Well, I mean that you don't need to apologize…"

"So you've been taking care of me?"

"I…I thought that you said that it hurt you to talk."

"Only to your sister, she kept…screaming…but I'll manage…what were you saying before?"

She blushed hotly. "It wasn't any of your business."

"Sounded like it might be."

"I was just…thinking…I didn't know you were here…listening I mean. I should tell you that a decent man would have announced that he was not half dead…"

"Well, you should know by now that…"

She coughed then slightly, a remainder that perhaps she wasn't as well as she had been hoping. He picked up on it immediately.

"You're…still sick?"

"I was never really sick. My head simply ached…too much sun…"

"You should be in bed."

Her face turned pink at his words, especially when combined with the memory of awakening this morning with his arms around her waist, "I was taking care of you…after all, only you could get yourself shot by a woman who, by the way is nearly eighty."

"My mistake, I'll ensure to only be shot by those in their early twenties from now on."

He did notice the way that her eyes sped towards the puncture near his abdomen; her own hand was still there, pressing down on it with a damp cloth. "Did it hurt though…being shot?"

"No…" He withheld another stab of pain, just as he'd been doing for the past few minutes, "it really doesn't hurt that much anymore."

"Really?" Ah, there it was, the slight note of hope that raised his spirits unbelievably.

"Oh no, I was shot once before."

She stared at him with her precious chocolate eyes as though attempting to discern if her was telling her the truth.

"Yes. And then it was far, far worse." Which was the exact truth, but back then he had certainly _felt_ worse during the recovery. His nursemaid then had been an old pockmarked Irish woman with hands as rough as tree bark.

"I don't believe you." She smiled. "But I do appreciate you trying to be brave."

He decided that if he hadn't already been in love, he would have fallen then—with her above him, stunning even in the haziness of his mind, his own angel.

"We need to talk, Will." Another stab, this one the worst yet, leaving bright lights before his eyes, he groaned slightly.

"No…you need to get your rest…we can talk later."

Mulish now, he refused her request, pressing her until she submitted, looking nervously into his eyes before stammering, "all…a-all right."

"Well…"

"I…you go first." She lowered her eyes, feeling shy again, knowing that currently her tongue was in knots at the back of her throat.

"I've already gone."

Arrogant, even as he suffered, and she adored him for it. "Caleb…it's…not easy for me…to just…say those things. I wish it wasn't…I can't…" And then she surprised him the most by admitting, "I'm scared."

"Of me?"

"No." Will decided that she couldn't look at him while doing this; he made her too nervous, even after all of this time, he still made her stumble and shake. "Of—of what you do to me. This. When I can't even think or talk because I'm worried about what you'll think."

He looked at her face, hidden behind the dark curtain of ruby red hair and the awkward smile, he saw and memorized the changing expressions, but he felt too content with the sound of her voice to interrupt her.

"I don't like to be this…emotional. I'm not used to crying."

"I can tell." She had rinsed out the rag and dispensed of it. Deciding to retrieve a fresh one. "I've always been the smallest…" Will confessed and if she sounded wistful, it as his fault, "Irma was bigger than me by the time she was six. And then, I'd keep getting sick—Mother told me once that she'd never expected me to live so long."

Strange how the woman who was even now standing, unflinching by his sick bed, cleaning his wound and mopping his brow could ever consider herself weak.

"Sometimes. Sometimes all you need to do is to look at me and I'll…well, you know" Pushing the new cloth against the wound, she avoided his face at all costs. It burned as she did so, both the pressing and the avoiding; but wary of the subtle fear in her eyes, he ignored it. "I don't like that feeling very much."

"I was scared at first too."

"And you're not anymore?" A whisper, a low, sultry whisper that raised the level of intimacy in a second.

"No. Now, I'm scared of other things."

She found his eyes then, warm pools beneath his perspiring brow; and she smiled slowly, showing that she understood, before going back to her task.

"I want to…but I don't know if I can. Sometimes I think about it, and I realize that it must be…it has to be wonderful to have someone. But then I think about losing you…and I can't stand that thought."

Her left hand went upwards, whilst her right held firm, mopping the beads of perspiration from his face in a motion that made him wish that he were healthier. He reached for her wrist instead and she gasped slightly at his touch, but didn't pull away.

"Will. Oh God—Let me love you. Please." It was a plea, undoubtedly pathetic but, in her mind, all the more charming for it.

Will was beet red by now, and relishing in it. She could, and she would. "I suppose that I should apologize for what I said yesterday…I don't know why I did…I mean, I wasn't really very angry at you." She snuck a glance at him, "I understand why you did what you did…and you were trying to tell me weren't you? I can remember that."

She coughed again, near the finale of her apology, and he released the hold that he'd garnered. "You should be in bed." More correctly, he was falling asleep, headed for the worst as they called it. The pangs in his side were no longer pangs but one long, continuous sting.

"I'll go once the physician's here."

"No, go now." She'd worry once he stopped talking.

"When the physician comes. You should know by now that you can't tell me what to do." His response was weak, and then, it was gone completely.

She called his name. Once, twice. And then she gave up on it. She checked for his heart beat—it was still there. That helped a bit.

"I love you Caleb." She whispered it into his hair, kissing his cheek even as she imagined the small upward turn of his lip.

* * *

**Author:** All right, fine. I won't kill them off. You guys didn't need to worry yourselves though, I said that I'd give you a happy ending, and I meant it. Caleb needed to get shot because Will needed to tell her grandmother that she'd leave with her. Do you see now. No need to worry because Seniya does have a vague idea of what she's doing…vague. 

I have to say, I'm glad to see how much you guys really like the sex. Naughty, naughty. Your true colours have been revealed at last! It's still coming, no worries, although, if it is still to be in chapter 26, chapter 25 will be really, really, long. So perhaps chapter 27…I guess I miscalculated. But definitely in the next few weeks. School's out now, I have one tiny little exam left on Tuesday, but it's multiple choice, so…

Expect updates twice a week until this damn thing is finished.

As usual, I am not too sure just how good this was, it was kind of long, and I had to take out a scene with Cornelia just so that it wouldn't be too long, but regardless. It will be finished soon. Awwww.


	25. Chapter 25

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

Chapter Twenty Five

* * *

Over the rolling hills and sloping valleys, past the sounds of the hunters and the hunted of the night, rested the heavy fog. It obscured the moon's vision of the long, muddy earth; it softened the eerie cries of the night creatures.

Only the morning could vanquish the mists of the night, send them scurrying off to find caves and hallows to await their triumphant revival. And now, it was that time, past the twilight nearing the echoing warmth of dawn, where the skies were just pink enough, just purple enough to be considered beautiful.

And the mists, which had so diligently warmed the earth throughout the cold stares of the night, vanished.

* * *

Lucifer, the morning star, a tortured angel forced for all eternity to lament upon the loss of his glory, shone brightly in the fragments of the sunbeams that drifted through the innate blackness of her dreamless slumber—trapped it seemed, forever in these fleeting visions of splendour.

* * *

Champagne was a horrible drink. Not that she'd tasted it then but _oh heaven_ Cornelia could taste it now. Bitter and atrocious, coating the back of her tongue, the fronts of her teeth, and—her skin itself erupted with goose pimples as she slowly eased her body upright—the lining of her stomach itself.

She was going to be sick.

The tenacity of her windpipe was truly tested in that next instant when the carriage in which she was travelling fell and then was expelled from a particularly vicious pothole. Wait—_carriage_?

Eyes, now flooded with water squinted hard against the wave of nausea rampaging through her body. She _was_—she could see the sturdy, leather seating and the rich velvet walls, the gold tipped lamps as well as the silk drapes. The entire interior bespoke of great wealth—but she had no memory of entering such a carriage—

"Awake now, I see." For the first time since her arousing, Cornelia became aware of the presence of another individual. The voice was low, seductive almost, and the man whom it belonged to spoke with a heavy lisp that carried over the s sounds.

It chilled her blood.

"W-Who are…who are you!" There was first the who, preceding the where, the why and the what. It was the most important of four in any case, the where and the what, no, they couldn't harm her, it was the who that was dangerous—the who and perhaps the why.

"Is there a reason that your heart trembles so? Do you truly not recognize me," and he leaned in closer then, moving across the space that separated them so that the heat from his breath easily warmed her cheeks and stifled her blood. "Cornelia."

At the sound of her name, Cornelia forced herself away, dragging her now lethargic body along the seat where she'd only seconds ago had been sleeping upon. Her trip was certainly prohibited when she collided, rear first with a heavy, unmoving mass, one that upon further discovery turned out to be human.

"Emily?" She muttered, touching the slumbering girl with a cautious hand for only a second before the unnatural sensation of her skin forced her to recoil—_she was so cold_.

Dead. The abnormal slant of her neck, the glassy look in her wide-open eyes and the long trail of dried blood that tainted her chin. _Dead_.

A hand covered her mouth to smother the scream that attempted to slip from her lips—her own hand, she realized slowly—and squeezed her eyes shut as well, in order to further contain the anguish that was so rapidly polluting her mind and body.

"Do you think that I killed her _Cornelia_?" The man had crawled off his own seat on the opposite side of the carriage to kneel in the space separating the two. He whispered these words to her with sinister delight, ceasing only once to lick her cheek—

"Get…get away from me! I am soon to be a married woman!" She was frightened now, far too terrified to even feign her trademark pride and condescension. She was grasping for straws, she was confused, and God help her—she needed to escape.

"Are you?" The word married seemed to evoke something—primal in this man, for, upon hearing it, he reached roughly for her shivering arms, tugging them away from her face until she was vulnerable, entirely at the mercy of his mouth.

He kissed her passionately, wildly, ravishing her until she was nearly sobbing in his arms with the pain of withheld revulsion. "Are you afraid of me Cornelia?"

She would have said no, screamed it fact, for she was nothing as pathetic as a coward. And by God, she'd let him know it. He had stolen her first kiss—stolen it from her. This fiend! And she knew it then, that if he were to have his way, a mere kiss wouldn't be the only thing that he'd take.

She was saved the trouble by an intrusion—the carriage door suddenly ripped open, that man suddenly ripped away from her presence. For a long moment, Cornelia allowed herself to believe that she was being rescued—by her fiancé perhaps; someone, anyone—

"Phobos?" Her stomach rolled, her mouth, once dry, filled with water.

He ignored her, reaching into the carriage in one smooth motion to retrieve her attacker, taking him, now stammering and sputtering into the outside world. She heard them quarrel, but the words—they were lost to her haziness.

The man didn't return, rather it was Phobos who re-entered the carriage. It was his lips that brushed her shivering now hands and his words that attempted to sooth her troubled mind.

"My sincerest apologies on the behalf of my man, dear lady." Eyes as blue as the heavens themselves peered upwards to smite hers. She swallowed dryly, momentarily mesmerized by the shock that she felt travelling upwards from her toes to her hair.

"I…" Swallowing a breath, she pushed aside any discomfort, remembering to frown when she offered a reply. "I demand to be sent home. I am quite uncertain as to the reason why I was taken…but if it is money that you are seeking, I assure you that my family will be more than willing to—"

"Money? I am afraid that your money cannot give me what I seek, my dear." Then, capturing her wry gaze with a small smirk he continued, "but I don't suppose that you would know about that."

The reasoning was fleeing from her mind, being replaced, ever so charily by an exotic feeling, one that burned through her stomach like acid, mingling with the champagne to form a toxin; it lulled her off to sleep.

"Emily…" She whispered, eyelids heavy, words slurring together as she drooped. "What have you done to her?"

"She's asleep."

Soon afterwards Cornelia had drifted off into unconsciousness, her breath a mere sigh in the carriage, her thoughts a sole line of misty words.

* * *

"You arrogant fool!" Cedric slinked away from his master's voice; generally, men of his species despised the sun, but currently, within these shattered rays he saw his one salvation.

Phobos moved upon the wind itself, soundlessly, fragilely, his long black cape fluttering behind him in a race with his thick golden hair. "Master, forgive me…the girl…she—she must have cast a spell on me. Forgive—"

"No! I have waited years for this! All of that planning!" In a blink of an eye one man was upon the other, long, seemingly delicate fingers wrapped about the smaller one's neck and he fell, in that same blink, to his feet, gasping for air.

"P-Please…please Master…forgive me."

"You are remarkably blessed that I do not snuff out your pathetic existence right now! Do not touch the girl again! Defile her—and I swear to Hades itself that you shall feel your death!"

Released from the grip at last, with naught but several dark purple bruises upon his otherwise flawless skin to show for the interaction, Cedric crumpled into the foetal position, eyes closed, ears alert, waiting for his Master's next request.

"Come here now! Help me dispose of this other one. She is no use to our cause, and her presence here will distract the lady."

"Yes. Yes my Lord." Hurrying forward with his shoulders hunched and his knees bent, Cedric did then, wordlessly assist his master in the disposal of the filthy human girl, as he had so many times in the past.

There were no passing thoughts between the two men, no words of regret or sorrow—neither could care about the careless destruction of human life, a child's dreams, hopes, loves all crushed into ashes—the final note of a swan's song.

"You'll be driving us until we reach Woodbridge tonight." Was all that passed between them, and to conclude, Phobos re-entered the dark chamber of the carriage and waited for Cedric to obey his order.

Had they however, decided to perhaps pay closer attention to the girl he was tossing aside, or even the one that he intended to keep—perhaps he might have realized the ball of blue ribbons nestled in one girl's fist, and the strip of torn fabric removed from one incredibly elaborate ball gown.

* * *

There were several downsides to travelling with the elderly, Taranee discovered, the first one being the constant bickering, complaining and the never-ending requests to pause for—bladder relief, not to mention the forgetfulness or the nagging.

As a direct result, Taranee had forced herself to stay fixed to the top of the carriage, neglecting several offers from Jeffery to take the helm, going so far to even knot Thor's reins about her wrists in order to prevent herself from succumbing to the seductive lure of sleep.

The gargantuan Mrs. Vandom had deserted the group hours ago—during the first bathroom stop, and although Taranee had moved far away from the group then to enjoy a few moments of precious contemplation, she had gathered enough information concerning the proceedings to gather that the woman had finally (through Hay Lin's own babbling) deciphered that the true victim, was Cornelia, not the red headed girl.

She had sworn at Susanna, thrown a stick at Jeffery and perhaps would have attacked the others if she hadn't realized just how ridiculous this entire lot seemed.

Now, they rambled on happily in the crowded carriage speaking intently on the subject of Napoleon, a subject that had apparently upset Susanna's blind mother to a great degree.

"I shan't talk of it! I refuse. Susan, if you are so upset with this Napoleon character I shall send you a book that my sister sent me from Egypt. It proves without a doubt that Napoleon never existed."

"It isn't that that I'm worried about!" Susanna's voice sped through the windows next, "Everyone with half a brain knows that Napoleon was a lie invented by those devious Spaniards. I am worried about my child Mother, the one who was taken from my house! Why aren't we at Dublin's yet!"

"Calm yourself my Angel of the night. It would not do well for you to upset yourself so terribly."

"Jeffery is right Susanna, ah, in fact, may I recommend a super new and very much improved powder solution to your stress. Now at special discount introductory price, one time only!"

It continued on like this for several more minutes before another argument broke out, once Yan Lin discovered Mr. Weisman's chosen profession—a mortician.

"A mortician! Hay Lin take great care to watch yourself! We are travelling with a demon of the night!"

"Oh Yan Lin be quiet, Daddy will hear!"

"He's deaf isn't he?" Hay Lin chirped, "He has to be. He's been whispering battle plans to me for the last hour."

"But he can read lips—"

"Your father can't read anything Susan. If it weren't for my constant vigilance he would have run us both into the poor house. Especially now that he's off his medications."

"Nevertheless, I can see him waiting over there for us to all drop dead. Oh, you'd like that wouldn't you old man. Wet your pockets with the money we've left over—"

"We're here!" Breathing a sigh of relief, and praying then that perhaps now the foolish conversations would cease, and that they could hopefully could concentrate on the matter at hand; the salvaging of Susanna's daughter, and hence, Taranee's reward money for capturing the deranged Phobos.

"Although I don't know what good it will do us. Dublin's an idiot." It seemed that none of them had gotten any sleep last night, Susanna herself emerged first from the carriage, her hair tousled, dress crumpled and dark circles rimming her deep, purple eyes. "We need to keep going on Taranah. It won't be long before we lose the trail."

"There is no real trail. It's too damn dry." Pulling her wide brimmed cap low over her forehead, so as to block out the breaking rays of the morning. "And it's a good idea to inform Dublin that your daughter is missing, we could use the help that he'll provide." Not to mention he needed to be reminded of her reward, heavens knew that she had worked for it.

Hay Lin disembarked next, holding on to the billowing skirt of Cornelia's wedding dress, which she had yet to take off—Susanna had yet to complete her argument, seeing as she still was stinging from her previous encounter with Dublin, she was hesitant to make herself vulnerable once near him.

"Let us just hurry then!" Snappish, she returned to her group, who were now attempting to aid Mrs. Weisman from out of the carriage.

* * *

Jamestown was empty still. It was now far too early for the majority of the population to have ventured out of the comfort of their beds, truly, most of them were still nursing wine induced headaches from the night before.

Now only the merchants and the shopkeepers stirred, keen to get a head start on the competition. Maids from the elegant townhouses a good few miles away drifted from store to store with baskets filled with breads and meats tucked underneath the crook of their arms.

The constable house was located in the near centre of the town, undoubtedly so that the handful of policemen could rush across the town to settle the innumerable arguments, brawls and assaults that made Jamestown—well, Jamestown.

And if the large, imposing red brick building was not enough to strike fear into the hearts of any would be criminal. Facing the headquarters was the executioner's block, the gallows, smack dab in the middle of the town, Virginia's own way of granting _bienvenue_.

Dublin, surprisingly was at his desk in the station—exactly where he should be. Upon seeing this, Susanna had to forcibly bite her tongue to contain the scathing remark that had been stagnating in her throat.

"Dublin." She stated, plaintively, the entire entourage trailing in behind her like a parade of ants, garnering more than a few curious stares from the two other officers present. "My daughter, Cornelia, has been taken by Phobos. I have been advised that she has but another week to live, and against better judgment I have come here to ask for your help. Now you old toad, saddle up the rest of the pack and let's get going."

Dublin's jelly like face (now a great deal less jelly like since his daughter's recent passing) clouded with confusion. "Cornelia?"

"Yes, yes. For my estranged husband seems to have a fetish for taking fair haired girls, now if you don't mind." She inclined her head towards the door.

"She's been taken…" Slowly his face broke out into a wide grin. "Well this is remarkable! It's fantastic…amazing!"

"I…I beg your pardon!" Face red, limbs trembling with withheld fury, Susanna stared at this man as though he was beyond mad. "My daughter has been taken and all you can say is—"

"It…I truly am sorry…Ms. Van…err…Countess…do forgive me I seldom know what it is I should call you."

"Do you see now! I am leaving!"

"Do forgive me, madam, I was simply…please…" He grabbed hold of her rumpled pink gown; it worked to hold her steady in her tracks. "We have decided to use some dogs to recover the bodies of the girls—but if Cornelia is still alive, we can use the animals to pick up her scent—and find—"

"You want to use dogs to find my daughter?" Susanna's voice was a scare whisper; the majority of the rage that would have induced loudness was trapped in her gut.

The slap that rang out afterwards made everyone in the vicinity flinch—save Hay Lin and the grandfather, who both cheered with delight.

"We are leaving…for certain this time! Dogs? Truly! We might as well have Daddy shove his nose to the ground."

"Susan—_please_, now you aren't the only one who has lost a daughter. These men have come from Germany and it is proven to work there. It is our only chance, believe me I ant this man captured just as much as you do."

Her mouth in a tight line, Susanna seemed to contemplate her options, but it was only when Yan Lin gave her nod of approval that she gave in. "All right, we'll use your—dogs."

"Err…Dublin, let's be frank," Taranee pushed through to the front of the congregation. "The reward, we can't forget about—"

"No, Once we find Phobos you shall have your reward," Then upon finishing the mopping of his sweaty brow, he stared at the group assembled in his office. "Where's the other one…your boy…he sullen one…err…Craig?"

"Caleb." She corrected abruptly, finding that the name still left a terrible aftertaste in her mouth. "He decided to stay…to ensure that the other two girls would be safe in case Phobos decided to return."

"Well, isn't that sweet?" Hay Lin cooed. "He's risking his life to ensure that they're safe."

"Oh, they'll need protection with that lunatic on the rampage, ah, be glad that your family is sane Hay Lin." Her grandmother ended with a pronounced snort.

"Will, especially. She wants to take her away to France, remember." Her insides suddenly heavy again, Susanna sighed and placed a placating hand on her forehead.

"Does she now?" Taranee's ears sprung to attention just then. "Well that's absolutely…terrible…yes…terrible."

"I hope that this entire thing is resolved before she has the chance to leave, that old heifer. She hated me since I married Thomas. Nineteen years seems like an awfully long time to hold a grudge. Doesn't it?"

"Hell hath no fury." Taranee mumbled, wondering for the first time since their parting, exactly what Caleb was doing at that moment, or at least, whether or not he had discovered this little hole in his foolish plan.

* * *

"Caleb…" Will would admit it now, she was afraid. "Caleb, please." She spoke to him as though he could hear her, although he'd long ago proven that he couldn't. Fresh tears burned her eyes and cheeks, rich sorrow choked her, making her every breath a struggle. She was so wrapped up in his suffering that all she knew was the way his lips parted to released pleas and cries to _her_, always to her.

Only minutes ago had she abandoned her watchful treatment of his wound, once the fever had worsened, she been forced to concentrate all of her attentions on keeping him onto the bed, for in his current feverish state it had become very obvious that he would kick himself off of the bed.

"Caleb please." Her tears ran like liquid fire along her cheeks, falling haplessly on his face while she attempted to hold his hands in place. She needed Irma, she needed someone else to help hold him in place.

"Will," he whispered, his eyes easing open to search for her face among the smoky haze that he must be imagining. "I'm right here." And to prove it she brushed her lips against his fingers. "You'll have to stay still Caleb. I know that it hurts, but I can't take care of you if you move like…"

He pushed her aside then, sending her staggering off into the heap of linens and cloths that Irma had made. She would have stayed there and cried just as her heart longed to, stayed there among the blood and the scent of pastille until she had expelled all of her distress, but she couldn't—rather, she refused.

He needed her, and she had no choice.

"Caleb, stop it!" She didn't know what to use to bring the fever down; he was so hot now that the heat from his skin had actually evaporated the water in the cloth that she had placed on his forehead. She couldn't hold him down, he was so much larger than she—and with the fever in his limbs he had no control over it.

All she knew to do was to kiss him, over and over again, all along the sides of his face and neck, even as he wrung away from her touch and soft words.

It got worse from there though, once when she attempted to wrap her hands about his, he tore away from her grip, tugging at her wrists until it hurt her too much to hold on. It was then she decided to call for Irma.

She was afraid of her sister's presence to be quite honest, she doubted that Irma would be able to thrive under such pressure, but it was only for a little while, only until her grandmother returned with the Physician.

Mind made up, Will rushed to the door, "Irma!" He cry was interrupted by the dry sound of a cough fleeing from her throat. "Irma! I need you…"

She didn't in fact need her sister, for at that very moment, her vision of the corridor was disguised by the re-emergence of her grandmother, and a long waif like man that Will would later decide was a gift from the heavens.

"Wilhelmina, stop your screaming, I've returned with some help." She dropped a heavy hand onto her granddaughter's shoulder, not as a means of comfort, but as a way of clearing a path for the doctor to pass through. "I went to the Potter's to borrow a carriage and perhaps a driver, but they were kind enough to allow me to use their own doctor who was there tending to the injuries of their boy, Joseph. You…wouldn't happen to know anything about his injuries would—"

"Caleb…he's…he has a fever…" Too over wrought now to conceal her worry or her tears, Will sputtered out her concerns while wringing her hands together. "He needs me, you see, he keeps calling my name."

"He's half insane with the pain." Speaking over the latest shout of her grandchild's name, Mrs. Vandom pushed the girl, who honestly stood level to her bosom, outside into the hallway.

"I-I…don't want to leave him."

"This bullet needs to be removed immediately." The doctor interrupted, and another call for _Will_ followed soon after it.

"I told you that I would go. What more do you want! Let me see him!"

"Wilhelmina, listen to me. You'll do no-one any good by tending to that boy in the state that you're in now. The doctor will take care of him, you are to go to your room and at the very least change out of your bed clothes."

She turned away then, shutting the door in her wake before Will had a chance to find a way inside.

* * *

Will didn't run off to her room as asked. Instead she collapsed in a heap outside of the door, with her ear pressed against the wood in a futile effort to discern whether or not Caleb was being treated fairly.

This, Will decided, was the worst of all. The not knowing, the hanging on to each and every tiny sound that slipped from the inside of the room. Her heart clenched each time she heard his voice, then it sank when she heard nothing at all. Truthfully, she knew that it could only be a few meters separating them, but in her heart, it felt like a thousand universes, an overwhelming darkness that consumed them both.

Irma joined her there sometime after, holding in a tray a bowl of porridge that she attempted to push past her sister's lips. "You have to eat something." She had mumbled when Will had brushed her away.

"I'm not hungry."

"You haven't eaten anything since yesterday. Come along now Will, eat or else you'll make yourself ill again."

Their conversation was interrupted by the cry of the door as it was roughly yanked backwards, Will stared upwards then into the disgruntled face of her grandmother. "Why are you out here? Did I not tell you to—"

"Caleb," In a voice that was rough with fear and heavy with sadness, Will questioned his fate. "How is he?"

She seemed to contemplate the answer for a long while, but upon noticing that the girl simply intended to push past her into the room, she answered stoically. "The doctor removed the bullet. He needs to rest."

"I want to see him." On her feet now, she proceeded to walk forward, but it was not to be so simple. "I've said that he needs to rest. That is all. You'll only do him harm by hovering about his bed side."

"I do not hover. He needs me, he would want me there."

"Do not forget our arrangement Wilhelmina." Bending low so that she could see into her kin's rich brown eyes, she tightened the grip that she garnered on Will's upper arm. "I'll be damned if I allow you to be demoralized by that man."

"You said by the end of the week—"

Sensing an argument, Irma now interjected, "I think that Grand-mama is right Will. You need to take care of yourself as well, don't forget that."

"Which reminds me," She continued as though she'd scarcely heard Irma at all, "That necklace, the pearls, that I gave you last night. I'll need them back you see. I wish to begin packing up my belongings."

And without waiting for another word, she retreated into the sanctity of the bedroom, leaving Will and Irma outside in cold, tasteless ignorance.

* * *

It was near into the night when Irma had finally managed to convince Will to take a bath – or at least, to soak in a tub of soapy water while Irma talked – either way, it was bound to be relaxing – for one of them.

"It's been a horrible past few days. I am beyond stressed. I just want to curl up in bed." And she was, believe her – her hair was frazzled, her fingernails dry and brittle, due to the innumerable number of washes that she had been forced to endure until she was certain that there was no blood hiding beneath the nail. To suit her new mood she had even changed dress, clothing herself in a long, mournful grey number.

"I can't imagine how you must be, I mean, poor Caleb…" Biting into an apple, sitting comfortably on a very large settee in their mother's abandoned room, where Will currently stewed in her bath water.

"Do you think the doctor…err…made him better?" She hadn't checked really, in fact she had busied herself in one of her least favourite places for the majority of the day, resting assured that everything would be fine once Caleb wasn't dead and Will wasn't half insane with grief.

"He removed the bullet. I suppose that that should be enough. I don't understand why I'm not supposed to bother him until later. He only talked to my grandmother—I didn't hear what he said. " She stared at her fingers as she spoke, and Irma decided that she too must be worried about the stain of blood, but before she could offer the aid of her scrubbing brush, Will began again. "I'm in trouble Irma."

"What about? Are you still sick?"

"No," Her voice was a sigh, made meek by an undertone of worry. "I'm getting married."

"To Caleb?" Was she rubbing this in? With Will's recent good luck in the world of love and marriage, it seemed that she was destined to be the family spinster, honestly, the girl could be a bit more sympathetic. "I know, you told me already. Bridesmaid, remember?"

"No…" Her behaviour certainly was distracting; yes, Caleb had been shot, but he was doing much better – why, he'd be as right as rain within the week, and as soon as he was, the two of them would run off to be wed. Will could at the very least force a smile. "Not to Caleb. My grandmother told me," Will glanced shyly at the open bedroom door, "she told me that she came here so that she could take me to France, Irma."

"Yes," Now this was throwing salt into a woman's open wounds – her unfulfilled wishes. "I know that as well."

"She knows a Duke who wants to marry me in France. She…made me promise that I'd go with her at the end of this week." From beneath her dripping bangs her eyes clamoured forward to meet her sister's. "I…I don't want to go." And then, if possible she sunk even lower into the porcelain tub.

"Have…" A fate of two husbands wasn't one that many a woman would complain about, rather it was a situation to be exploited in order to garner as many silks and shoes and dresses as possible. "Have you explained to your grandmother exactly what—"

"She doesn't care. She said the most horrible things and – don't you have any ideas?"

Ignoring the pangs of jealously, which in her mind were well justified, Irma bit into her apple thoughtfully. "Caleb—you, haven't told him have you?"

"No, I didn't have a chance."

"And, what are we trying to do here? You want to marry Caleb, right?"

"Of course." Decidedly avoiding Will's strange "what's wrong with you Irma" look, the brunette pressed on. "Well, how badly do you want it?"

She looked so fragile, so tired and weak clinging to the sides of the elaborate tub that Irma did wonder, briefly, exactly how anyone could force such a tiny person into doing anything, guilt-free. "More than anything…I…I love him Irma."

Tears picked at the backs of her eyes, and her piece of apple turned to mash in her mouth, "Oh, Will—this is so—wonderfully romantic."

"It isn't. It's horrible because—we can't—be with each other—"

All thoughts of envy now dispelled, Irma made a promise to herself that she'd most definitely ensure that these two had their happy ending. What was she doing being jealous of Will in any case? "There's no such thing as _can't_. I'll…I will think if something!" Irma jumped to her feet then, bringing to life hundreds of dust motes and feathers when she did.

Will followed the motion with sombre eyes for a long while, but after a few minutes of watching as Irma called herself all manner of names and insults, the excitement gradually wore off, and she returned her attention to the bar of rose scented soap in her palm.

"I have it!" A good few seconds afterwards, Irma announced her realization—and to her credit, she seemed to truly believe that what she had decided, her blue eyes were overflowing with excitement, her cheeks were refreshingly rosy. Yes, Irma seemed excited, and that moment was exactly when Will began to feel her hope vanish.

"You do?"

"Yes!" But desperation left no room for common sense, and against all better judgement, Will encouraged her sister to elaborate.

"Seduce him." And she seemed disgustingly pleased with herself for coming up with such a notion.

"Irma, this—I need an escape plan. How to steal some horses or something." Even as she spoke her face grew redder, and slowly her voice was reduced to a mere stammer over the hills and valleys of her vowels. "And besides, s-seduction i-is hardly…the..the answer to a-any…anyone's problems."

"Oh, but Will, it is!" Sitting now, on the backs of her calves, Irma stooped low next to the tub in order to meet Will eye to eye. "If this France man is truly European, they'll check you to ensure that you're a virgin. If you aren't…well then, you can't marry him. Especially if he's aristocracy."

"He's…he's fifth in line for the throne."

"Excellent." Grinning now, Irma snatched the soap away from her sister and proceeded to scrub her hair. "Now, we have to get you all cleaned up so that he won't be able to resist you."

"Ow…" She yanked away from the rough touch, holding Irma's fist and forcing her to meet her eyes, "But Irma, look, to be honest I tried to—do _that _before and he...He told me to go home."

Her eyebrows came together to form a strict V in the middle of her face. "Did he now? Well…you obviously weren't doing it right."

"For your information it was last night and if I didn't know how to do it right then, I doubt that I'll know how to do it right now."

That did seem to genuinely penetrate her stubbornness, and Will breathed a sigh of relief when she felt the fingers loosen their grip on her thick red hair. "Well, no, now I wouldn't expect that you would be able to. No worries though," Her smile had truly never faltered, not even when she stood up to stare down to what had to be a very depressing sight (soapy, frowning Will). "I've read a great many books on the subject. I'm practically an expert." And besides, if anything, the truly sultry adventures of the young Gemma and her riding teacher, had to be as good a tutorial as any.

"Irma…" Truthfully, her excursions to Caleb's bed weren't something that she felt as though she should be discussing with her sister, whose idea of love and romance tended to linger towards the morals of a brothel. "He's hurt anyway—and well, I don't think that he can—you know, be seduced."

"Well, to be honest," Irma's entire face was alight now, and she spoke carefully, her words chosen with reverence as though she were dictating God's own proclaimation, "a man only needs one part of his body to be working for you two to—consummate, and well, if it is then you needn't worry about anything else."

"Irma…" How could this girl truly stand so straight-faced and talk about this? Matters such as these, well they shouldn't be discussed so flippantly! "I don't feel very comfortable discussing this with you."

"And why not!" She really did have the naïveté left to sound offended. "You're soon to be a married woman, it's natural."

"But…" There was panic now, saddled with undiluted nervousness, and she continued to plea for the sake of her virginity, which seemingly was quite comfortable where it was. "Are you certain that there's no other way?"

"But why are you so suddenly hesitant?" Now that her much enjoyed discourse had been interrupted by the frivolous fears of her sister, Irma did take the time to reason. "You tried to last night didn't you?"

"It was different then. I was…it was an impulse, but this is…doing _it_ for this reason seems wrong somehow."

"All right," Lying was always worthwhile in these situations, and, truth be told, an easier course of action than a dose of reality, "I'll tell you what. We can just practice—but we'll keep on thinking of another plan."

"All right…" Will still wasn't too convinced, but she knew by now that Irma—once her mind was glued to a certain fact, was a very difficult branch to sway. She most definitely wouldn't be using this plan unless every other conceivable route had been deemed unfit – flying away on the back of a broomstick included.

"All right, now what I understand about it, the man uses his," She proceeded to create large cloud like shapes with her hands, "…thing…to plant a seed into the woman's stomach." Satisfied then by the accuracy of her description, she elaborated further. "That's how you get babes."

"So…" Well that made no sense at all. And even as Will keep turning her head around to check to see if the hallway was still devoid of any unwanted listeners, her mind went wild with descriptions. A girl, Anne DeWitt, who had claimed that one had to get naked on a bed for a man to use a hose like device to impregnate you, and another, Jocelyn Chapman, who had claimed that the entire thing was dependant on the size of a woman's hips and breasts, and that also sometimes men needed more than one woman to get it done accurately. And now this? Did anyone know exactly what needed to be done? "He'll…put it into my mouth—oh God Irma, I don't want to talk about this with you!"

"Well you don't have a choice." Not even the side of a blush, Will noted, even at the tawdry subject matter, but she didn't comment. "I don't know what he does with it, but it can't be very unpleasant. In my novels Gemma really seemed to enjoy it."

"That's a book, and I don't appreciate you using it as a reference."

"All right—so then what?"

Shrugging her shoulders imperceptibly, Will slid along the bottom of tub so that she was facing her sister, who was once again seated on the settee. "I don't know…tell me what it was like for you."

"What do you mean for me?"

"For you and Steven…in the closet." Seeing the murderous glint in those baby blue eyes Will thought it best to back away cautiously. "That's what Cornelia said that you were doing."

"Well, we weren't!" Suddenly sulky, Irma tossed the remainder of her apple away, it landed with hardly any significance in the corner of the room, and then with a giant huff befitting royalty alone, she crossed her arms and stared at the floor. She was silent for a long moment afterwards, a remarkable feat, especially for her and so, of course, it couldn't last. "I'm really…tired of telling people that…we were just…it doesn't matter…"

"I-I'm sorry Irma."

"I don't blame you. I suppose I'd think the same thing if I were you."

Aware of the guilt and pity that had so quickly nestled in her gut, Will put aside her own disgust in a Herculean attempt to alleviate her sister's. "So…he'll plant his seed? How will I know if he's done it?"

"Men know." Once her mind was again focused on the task at hand, the humiliation did find its way to the back of her mind, even though I didn't disappear all together. "I imagine that he'll tell you. And he'll kiss you, all over your body. I remember it in my book; it said he '_littered kisses along her milky white skin until he knew all of her secrets_'. It was very good."

It didn't sound very good—although, she shifted uncomfortably in her neck deep puddle, Caleb was a very good kisser—"I see…"

In a voice that was in no way indicative that she'd even heard Will's less than exuberant remark, Irma pressed on. "It's supposed to hurt a lot for the first time though, you'll probably cry." Continuing to dampen all spirits, excluding her own, "And you're supposed to bleed too I think because the in-laws always check the sheets for blood in the morning so that they'll know that the girl was a maid."

"It definitely doesn't sound very good." Mind made up, Will decided to look at plan B, in this case, tunnelling out the back door with a spoon.

"It's how it is."

"All right so how do I go up to him and ask?" Plan B had transformed quickly into Plan C,D,E, and then F—which had invariably led her right back to her starting point: the glorious plan A. Although not entirely resigned to her fate yet, Will did decide that it was still in her best interests to gather as much information on the topic as possible—just in case. "Do I just say that I want him to plant his…"

"No, God no. No wonder he sent you home." Irma seemed horrified by that statement, now fully recognizing her sister as a lost cause. _And she still had two engagements._

"You have to plan it very carefully." Clamouring unsteadily to her feet, Irma prepared herself for an epic demonstration. "You go into his room and then you say, my Mister Beauregard, it certainly is very warm in these here parts," Her accent was horrendous, her face, incredulous (the Irma version of lustful she imagined) but her enthusiasm—unparalleled. "And then you take off your dress and reveal your chemise." She tugged at her own dress, fumbling with the buttons until the entire thing fell in a mess at her feet. "Then you go into his bed and say. Oh Mister Beauregard! I've needed you for so long now, and I want you! Yes! I need you like I need life itself!"

By this point she had flung herself onto the bed with her feet in the air, pounding her fists at strategic intervals, like the _yeses_ and the _wants _and _needs_. It was all very—enlightening.

Plan B had begun to look a lot better.

"That's foolish." Turning once more to peer out the open door, Will prepared a monologue, which would clearly describe to Irma exactly why she doubted that these activities contained so much—screaming.

"It works though. My book was written by a Italian lady, and they're a passionate lot. It's banned in England you know."

She wouldn't. No, she definitely wouldn't—and she wasn't being prudish. No, by tricking Caleb into taking her virginity just so that she wouldn't have to go away—no, she couldn't. Bedroom activities were meant for the scandalous and the married. Last night—she'd been confused, her body had yearned for something…rather someone, and she hadn't been able to refuse it then. She wouldn't make that mistake again. "But if my grandmother finds out—she'll want to shoot Caleb again."

"I'll steal her pistol. Isn't this exciting?" She had a bandage for every sore, Irma did. And perhaps under different circumstances it would have been commendable, but not now—not when she was attempting to barter off her innocence for freedom.

"Very."

* * *

**Author:** I have been a little busy over the past few days trying to finish Atonement and this Avatar fic that I wrote elsewhere, do I haven't had the chance to make good on my twice a week promise, but I assure you, regardless of how many updates this will be finished soon. Yay!

Three hundred reviews! Wow, I mean wow. A lot of reviews don't make a good story, but hey do make a happy writer. And I am happy. Thank you so so so very much for that.


	26. Chapter 26

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

Chapter Twenty-Six

**WARNING: This chapter contains a ridiculously long sex scene. It isn't explicit or anything, but just in case you're a Mormon or something, you know, beware the sex. This chapter is also about 12,500 words long, so beware that too.**

* * *

The day passed slowly, time itself seemed to hold his breath, prolonging the seamless transition of morning to afternoon, lengthening the wash of blue into pink then orange, although, it hastened to bring about the fall of day and the rise of the soundless night, coated in the ashes of time. 

Will hadn't been allowed to visit Caleb for the remainder of the day; her grandmother had kept the door tightly shut for the duration of the doctor's visit, leaving her an outsider t the going ons of this perverse doctor-patient-grandmother relationship.

She had sulked away the remainder of her time in her bedroom, valiantly attempting to bury her neurosis. It didn't work. And for that she blamed her mother, she who had convinced her since before she was properly weaned, that physicians were evil. How many had died not from illnesses, but from the hands of a money grubbing doctor?

Countless, she imagined, though she'd be damned if she allowed Caleb to become another. What was she still doing moping around in here? When she had her own card up her sleeve—as the saying went—the bullet had already been removed, if she told her grandmother that she wouldn't leave with her unless she was allowed some time with him—well, that should work!

Moving hurriedly from her feckless vantage point in her mother's bedroom, and brushing off the dust from her new dim pink dress, one that Irma had insisted that she wear, Will walked purposefully through the hallway, a prolonged rant already on the tip of her tongue when she discovered the door ajar—her grandmother, upon further inspection was gone.

* * *

Caleb was still asleep when she arrived; his body bathed in the soft moonlight and covered, with the more tangible blankets. He was so still, so completely quiet that even from this distance the slight motion of his chest seemed so significant—Will supposed that her heart broke completely just then.

She wasn't used to seeing him so vulnerable, so fragile. Even now the image didn't settle well in her mind, as she journeyed forward, away from the doorway and into the darkened chamber that still carried the copper-like perfume of sickness, it was hard to dislodge the sensation of a dream—

"Can I help you Miss?" Abruptly aware of the fact that she was not the only individual in this room, Will dragged her gaze away from Caleb's frame to linger on the man in the corner—his light grey eyes boring deeply into hers until she was forced to look away.

"I came to see Caleb." She muttered, and then hearing no objections, she grew bolder, "I don't care about what either of you has to say—I intend to stay—"

"Now child," He had drifted closer, dropping the small vials and glasses that he had been examining into his large leather bag so that he could examine her face instead. "Exactly how did you come by such nasty bruises on your pretty skin?"

"I-I" She was startled, naturally, not only by his touch but by the genuine concern that seemed to breed in his whispery voice. "…I tend to fall a lot, you see I'm very clumsy."

A lie, but it was easier than the truth, which was long and distracting—and she couldn't afford to be distracted.

"You know, the young Mr. Potter who I've also been tending to—he has some nasty bruises as well. I've been told that a little red headed wench inflicted them on him."

His voice lacked emotion, she decided—if she truly wanted to know what he was thinking, then she'd need to meet his gaze; she did, finding that once those whispers of ashes touched her, it was rather difficult to be afraid. "Well, if that's what he said—"

"Come here now child, let me tend to those." He led her into a corner of the room, towards the nightstand where his bag lay; "You don't want to have those marks all over your skin now, do you?"

He bathed her cuts and bruises with more care than she'd thought it possible for a man to have, he was very quiet throughout the process, muttering only once when he noted the slight scar around her eye.

"Will Caleb be all right?" Resolving, quite conclusively that this man was not a real threat to her, Will asked what had been plaguing her for hours.

"He needs to rest. The bullet wasn't in too far, so it didn't do a great deal of damage." Seemingly satisfied that she wouldn't die of gangrene, he put away his bottles of ethanol. "It's only the blood loss that has him so weak. There will be no strenuous activity until he gets his strength back. He's lost a great deal of blood as you can imagine."

It felt nicer in his voice, now, not really raspy and old, but warm, hopeful almost. "What is he to you?" He questioned casually, but she could understand what the answer would hold for her.

"He's…" Stomach fluttering, skin tingling with a supernatural urgency she explained, "he's my everything. I have to stay with him—he'd want me to."

"I wouldn't ask to you leave him," He encouraged her to sit in a nearby chair, which she, for lack of feeling the urge to do anything else, did. There, he gingerly touched the marks along her wrists. "I just don't want you to disturb him. He needs his rest."

"I'll let him sleep." She promised.

"Good girl. And what are those," He touched the marks below her eyes, dark splotches that had come to be from days of poor rest. "It seems to me that you need sleep yourself."

"Why are you so nice?" Will had never truly been a victim of the jejune fantasies of world wide empathy and as of late, the naiveté that people helped others simply out of the kindness of their hearts—had been proven to be remarkably foolish.

"Ensuring that you kill yourself with exhaustion isn't a nicety Miss." He pressed two fingers against her neck, studied her with solemn eyes for a long moment before returning to his bag. "You will get some sleep as well then."

"Yes." Will nodded, knowing that she wouldn't get any sleep tonight if that was what it took to ensure that Caleb would be all right.

"Dr. Lincoln, may I ask—Wilhelmina is not to be left alone with this boy. She is engaged and it is against propriety…" Disrupting the sanctity of the moment, Mrs. Vandom, her entire being heavy and imposing, walked into their space. Will could feel her eyes on her face, and feeling spiteful, she drew them out, staring unfazed at the woman who only stared back.

"I have heard Mrs. Vandom, for your dearest granddaughter has informed me of that fact. But rest assured, she shall not be alone. I will stay with her for tonight, I think that I need to watch the boy for a while longer in any case." It was hard to not look smug at the sight of her grandmother's tightly pinched face.

"And, I am of the opinion that seeing him will help her as well. Her heart rate is much too fast, terribly high blood pressure for one so young, too many worries you see. I think that it will help her to see him tonight, since she seems so concerned about him. And never you mind propriety, I shall ensure that she and her fiancé behave themselves." He concluded with a good-natured chuckle.

"He isn't her fiancé." The humour wasn't shared, now Mrs. Vandom leaned heavily against the doorway.

"Well," His voice still retained that odd sense of mystery, "I'll ensure that they behave either way. Wilhelmina knows better than to cause the boy any excitement. Now, if you please, they both need some rest."

For one so frail to face one so massive—it seemed blatant which one should win—a David and Goliath match, right before her very eyes, Will mused. But even with his pretty grey eyes and whispery words, the good doctor seemed as strong as any Goliath.

Frowning heavily, Mrs. Vandom reluctantly turned away and disappeared into the darkness.

It was a long while before Will could look up again, and even then her gaze returned to her lap almost immediately. She stared at her bluish wrists and her ragged fingernails until the tears blurred them into nothingness. "Thank you." She whispered finally.

The heavy warmth of a blanket was her reply, that and two hands pushing her further into the chair. "Sleep now dear. He won't awaken tonight, and if he does I promise that I'll get him whatever he needs."

Nodding dumbly, Will allowed her body to be adjusted and propped up against pillows—It wasn't long after that she feel asleep, the wind singing the softest of lullabies in her ears, the moon her own constant guardian.

* * *

Plans for the esteemed seduction plan were seriously hampered, when Caleb (a very significant contributor to the success of the arrangement) didn't awaken at all that night or the morning after. Well, no, that isn't the complete truth, he had arisen once to stare at Will with large glassy eyes and ask her for the time.

The doctor had been gone by the time Will had awoken, almost as though he'd never been—actually, it was Irma that she saw first that morning, who quite presumably was in a right state, practically foaming at the mouth and later attempting to prod the man with various objects in an attempt to awaken him—Will was forced to toss her out.

She did take very good care of him however. Mindful of the doctor's words, she allowed him his rest, only disturbing him a handful of times to adjust his pillows and his feet—perhaps it was during that time that she realized that he was stark naked. And things didn't go so smoothly after that.

After that she had reduced her fussing exponentially, keeping most of her attention to his upper body, trying desperately to banish the curiosity—_Irma would peek._ Yes, yes she would. And if that wasn't a good enough reason to steer away, Will didn't know what was.

* * *

Her grandmother came to visit sometime early that Sunday morning, Will had been dozing off, her hand propped beneath her chin in the chair that she had planted near the bed head when the sound of heavy feet had awaken her.

"Any improvement?" She had asked, and Will hadn't replied, wanting to reduce the number of conversations between the two of them to a bare minimum. "I see…well, I am certain that you are exceedingly grateful for the doctor's intervention, however, you are not to spend the night without again. Starting tonight, I will stay with the both of you. I shan't interfere."

Then, pausing only once to survey Will's utterly furious little face, she pressed on, "Have you found my necklace yet my dear? It is so terribly valuable to me."

"No." She hadn't even remembered it. "I'll look for it later."

"Do that." And then she left.

* * *

When Irma joined her for lunch (a predominantly watery mess of potatoes), Will did remember to mention the matter of the necklace. "So Friday night when you undressed me, did you see it?"

"Will, Caleb's not wearing any trousers!" Looking as though Christmas had come early, Irma continued to stare underneath the covers until Will finally grew annoyed and embarrassed and yanked them from her hands, moving then to tuck them securely beneath his legs. "What? Don't tell me that you haven't looked."

Face red and warm now and arms trembling terribly, Will shook her head to show the negative. "Well then you're missing—"

"Have you seen it?"

"Yes…I have…and you can too."

"No you monkey! Have you seen the necklace?"

Irma hesitated above her bowl of mush, her face twisting silently into a veneer of confusion and ill concealed reminiscence. Finally she began, "You weren't wearing it."

"I had to be."

"Maybe it fell off. Or maybe Caleb knows where it is; he took off your corset you know. Stayed the entire night with you."

Something scratched terribly against the lining of her stomach, burning and pooling there in a mess of heat—it wasn't entirely uncomfortable, merely nerve wracking, if her thoughts lingered for too long on the sensation, it made her skin tighten inexplicably. "How'd he…take them off?" Staring at her own bowl of potatoes, Will questioned in a soft voice.

"With a knife. Do you want to see the corset! It looks ravished."

"No," Still breathy and feeling strangely light headed, Will decided to let the matter drop, the images that her mind was suddenly creating were far too lucid for a sickbed—

"Well in more important matters I have recently discovered that your grandmother keeps her pistol in between breasts. I saw her take it out this morning to clean it." With her spoon still between her lips, Irma gave a very dramatic shudder. "Not a pretty sight."

"Irma, I've been thinking about the plan—I think that maybe—it won't work."

"And why not?" Seriously offended, Irma removed her spoon and huffed in Will's direction.

"Well…he's asleep, and the Doctor says that he needs to rest. I can't make him do that."

"Don't be foolish, now that means since he's been sleeping, he'll have extra energy when he wakes and—"

"Irma, I don't want to. It's cheap. Seducing a man like that is a horribly selfish way to—"

"He'll forgive you. Once you explain it to him, he'll be more than happy to help."

"No, once he hears of this plan he'll think that you're loony. Which you are."

"I'll let the loony comment slide because you're under a lot of stress…but honestly Will—the only other option is…maybe if you get him to marry you before you leave then, well you can't be married twice."

"That's even worse." Sinking back into her chair Will looked at her potatoes with a particularly dolorous expression. "Why can't I have normal problems like all of those other girls—like what dress I should wear today or how I should do my hair?"

"Just think about it. I suppose it's normal to have second thoughts—but, let's be honest, it isn't as though I'm offering you up as a blood sacrifice."

"No, it's like I'm offering up myself as a virginal sacrifice…and you said that there was blood so what are you talking about."

"Touché." Digging into more of her meal, Irma was remarkably silent after that, knowing no words to console her poor sister's mind—well, at least, none that would be effective.

* * *

Will did mention to her sister that her grandmother wanted to spend the night with the two of them in the room, phrases which Irma had taken as direct insults and made it her own personal mission to put a stop to.

She had left her half finished potatoes and stomped off to search their mother's bedroom (now Irma's in her absence) for the chain of house keys—and she found them in fourteen minutes flat, and before Will could protest she tossed her a long brass one and demanded that she lock herself up tight.

When she had calmed herself sufficiently (a few minutes before dinner), she'd then drifted into the downstairs' study, where Mrs. Vandom could now be found enjoying a tall glass of brandy.

Surprising that she found any in this house, Irma chuckled to herself, but entered stone faced none the less. "Grand mama…I hope that I'm not interrupting." She ploughed on before she could answer that she was. "But what a handsome boy your Thomas was, I just found some paintings of him up in the Attic and oh my, why its no wonder that he was married off to Mother so quickly. She has remarkably high standards in men after all."

That claimed her attention. "Paintings! In the Attic! Left to rot! I despise that woman who gave you breath Imming! Quickly," Grabbing hold of her cane, she moved to her feet, and if it hadn't been for the slight slur in her words, Irma would have never known that she had been indulging in alcohol.

"It's _Irma_, and I was certain that you'd be interested."

Irma would later use that very cane to aid her in the trapping of Mrs. Vandom in that very attic. She would then hurriedly lock the massive padlock with the keys stolen earlier that day and then rush back into the guest room to bid her sister a goodnight, careful to brush off the two shots that subsequently rang out throughout the empty halls and spaces of the house, as mere birds.

* * *

There was only so much comfort to be derived from the sweet liquid darkness that hung heavily on her shoulders. The sounds of the night hummed sweet and silent over the fields of cotton and tobacco that stood as watchful sentinels all through the heavy hills and sloping valleys of Virginia, wordless watchers, lonely storytellers.

Will had decided sometime during that soulless isolation on her course of action. She wouldn't—rather, she couldn't seduce Caleb. Perhaps, yes, perhaps she wanted to feel those things that Irma had described and receive those kisses along her body—_especially those_. But how could she? She wanted it to be more special than that—it should be so much more than an obligation, a trick, it should be perfect—but if it was her only hope, then maybe—

It came to her slowly then: the idea; a plan of her very own. Truly, she had never been very devious or very scheming, choosing instead to be more direct towards her adversaries. Perhaps it owed to the darkness, the solitude, the urges whispering to her frightened mind, but it took shape, and soon her one idea had risen, creating a full fledged plan.

_She would fake it._

It couldn't be remarkably difficult to feign sex, could it?

If all she needed was blood and some tears, well she could easily get those.

Mind made up, Will clamoured from her chair to search her surroundings, for a knife…and perhaps some onions. Maybe a needle would do, Irma hadn't said how much blood there was—but better too much than too little.

She dug around frantically for a good while after that, rifling through closets filled with baubles and trinkets, through drawers over flowing with discarded dresses and under garments. She did find a pair of shears, those she stowed in her pocket in case nothing else showed up.

Nothing else did, and so she turned her attention towards the neat pile of Caleb's clothes, remembering the fuzzy words of her sister as she described how he had cut her corset off her body those nights before; yes, he'd most definitely have a knife.

He did. Her fingers collided with the cold steel handle on the first examination of his pockets—and, something else, her curious hand tightened around something longer—rounder: _the necklace_.

Her grandmother's…for she recognized the startling weight of it, and the shape of each grinning pearl as they captured what was soon to be the moonlight. But what was it doing here?

Not for even for a second did it occur to her that Caleb could have taken it. No, for firstly, he wasn't an idiot, and if he'd wanted to steal anything of value he could have simply ventured to her mother's bedroom, where the Countess kept hundreds of broaches and earrings, diamonds and emeralds, all gifts from her various suitors, but more importantly, she kept them completely unguarded.

Who in their right mind would choose pearls, which would be surely missed, over a host of other treasures, which could go undetected for weeks?

It was her grandmother's doing. That wench. She must have planted it during those hours when she'd been alone with him in this room, knowing that Will would find it eventually. That was why she had been so adamant about asking for it!

Something burned horribly in her gut: anger, she realized and rather than pushing it aside, she allowed herself to relish in it. It felt nice in any case, to feel something other than fear. When she found her tomorrow, she would throw this little incident in her face, and that on top of her "virginity" scandal—well, she'd shoot Caleb for certain.

Why was everything so damned hopeless!

Retrieving the knife from her pocket, Will thought to push this necklace matter into the back of her mind. After all, she had more important things to concentrate on, like getting the hell out of this house.

* * *

She had returned to the bedside chair to contemplate the matter further when it seemed that drawing blood from her palm was a remarkably—morbid feat. Her stomach churned and her hands shook, despite her mind's own commands that they remain quiet.

_Impossible_, she had sighed, collapsing into the chair while twisting the knife idly in her hands, she was certain that she'd endured more pain than this in her lifetime, but still—

She couldn't even fake intercourse—now what?

* * *

"Will?" Heart in her throat, head in the clouds, Will turned to face his voice, now groggy and rusty from lack of use—still, it was easily the most beautiful thing that she could ever remember hearing.

"Caleb?" It was entirely plausible that her voice, harsh with emotion and stale worry, sounded no better. "You…you're awake."

"You're here?" He seemed incredulous, and she immediately knew that it was her duty to somehow chase away that reaction. She hustled to his side, capturing his still limp hand in her own and brushing open mouthed kisses against his knuckles. "I'm here." She told him gently, "I never left you."

He didn't speak for a long while after that, giving her enough time to feel tremendously foolish for kissing him there—she'd abandoned his touch and walked away to her chair before he spoke again. "You didn't get any rest then?"

She nodded, choosing to veer away from this conversation. "The doctor removed the bullet. He said that you need lots of sleep, so…I…"

"But you didn't…" He moved then, his entire frame shifted quietly as he attempted to rise to a sitting position, he flinched a few times, adjusting his position to avoid too much strain on his side before going back to reprimand her for not listening to his orders. "I told you that you…"

"Oh for Heaven's sake Caleb, it was a headache not the plague. I'm fine." Lowering her eyes again, she distracted her flustered mind from his naked chest by tracing patterns on her arm, and then in a voice that was remarkably soft, she confessed with a heavy breath. "If I'm away from you for too long I start to worry. And I slept last night anyway."

"Don't start." He'd turned to face her now; she could feel his eyes as surely as she could feel the flush creeping along her neck. "You're behaving as though I'm telling you this for spite, go to sleep."

"I…" He was sending her away? Again? The man was infuriating! "No!" Meeting his eyes at last she rushed along in an explanation that she prayed didn't sound so pathetic to the outside world. "What if you awaken in the night and you need something? I'll be all the way down the hall and…"

"Is that it?" He was smiling—_at her_—her chest quaked a little…**a lot**. Resentfully, her initial frustration slipped away. "Don't laugh at me." She rose to her feet, noting with a gasp that his gaze followed her as she went.

"At risk of decapitation? Never." His eyes were the most startling green that she'd ever seen, they were so clear, so remarkably translucent that every light in the room appeared to be trapped in that turbulent kaleidoscope of jade.

She found her breath, "I see you think very highly of me. That's gratitude for you."

His hand edged upwards through the sultry darkness, stealing sound, thought and breath with the motion. His fingers slipped along her face, along her eyebrows and over her ruby red locks until he easily caught a tendril of the wondrously soft strands in his fingers, those he pushed behind her ear.

Will could only stare as he continued, could only watch while he looked up at her with that remarkable expression on his face—she swallowed thickly. "Does it still hurt?"

There was a tension between the two of them, he could feel it as well as she; like strings that had been pulled taunt across a space and drenched in the waters of desire. "It's better now."

"Would you tell me if it did?"

Now he looked away, fully educated now in the power of this woman's eyes alone. "Probably not." And then he added, for he felt that she should know. "I'm glad that you're here."

She seemed pleased by the effect, and he as a result, could not help being touched by her exhuming happiness. "Do you want some water then? Or some porridge, Irma made it, but it isn't so awful."

He didn't. His mouth felt too dry for water, his stomach, too heavy for food. But the thought of giving him something—anything, seemed to delight her immensely, so he allowed her the freedom of fiddling around with the bowls and cups on the bedside table.

* * *

"I had a dream about you." It was more as a reason for her to stop forcing porridge down his throat than something that he'd truly wanted to discuss. He had no intention of enlightening her with the horrid nightmares that had plagued him throughout his fever and subsequent recovery. It had been horrific to watch as his images of her had solidified and disappeared, whispered and then burnt—truly terrible—_But she was here now,_ he told himself, and hopefully, she'd be here for a great deal of time afterwards.

"A nice one of course." More porridge, and so obviously his plan hadn't worked.

"Of course, you were much better tempered however and happier. You were laughing."

"It _was_ a dream." She smiled that smile that he prayed she saved just for him—and then more porridge. "But I'm happy now," true to her words she placed the cereal aside, moving towards a glass of water, "I'm very happy that you're all right."

Apparently contemplating her actions, she toyed with the glass of water for a long while before hurriedly rushing forwards and pressing her lips against his cheek. Afterwards, she wouldn't look at him. "What's all of this now?" He'd formed the opinion that whatever in her hands had to be remarkably interesting, and so he had focused his attention there as well, although lingering not on the glass in her hands but on the bit of flesh that she seemed intent on concealing.

"Those?" She pulled her wrists away, shrugging infinitesimally. "I fell again. Don't worry about it. Sleep."

"You didn't fall." Caleb pressed, "Someone did it to you. Who?"

"Caleb…" She replaced the cup on the nightstand.

"Who Will?" When she could avoid him no longer, she removed her tongue from her cheek and whispered, "You did." And then, after seeing the look on his face, she tried desperately to amend it. "—by accident. When you were very badly off, you had a fever and I tried to hold you and you…well…mistook my hands for someone else's. It doesn't hurt." Will finished lamely.

He surveyed the long strips of discoloration on her alabaster skin. He didn't appreciate the contrast. "I'm sorry."

"It wasn't your fault."

"Still…" He ran his fingers along the smooth skin on her hands, relishing in the feeling of her racing pulse and goose pimples, he kissed the skin then, lingering on the bruises that he'd caused. "I'm sorry. I won't ever hurt you again. I swear it." When he released his grip, she offered him the other hand. "You…you…bruised this one as well."

He grinned at her before pressing another kiss on her palm. "Are you going to coddle me so for the rest of the night."

"Until you're better. The doctor says that it'll be a few days. After that, I'm chasing you about with a riding crop for making me worry so much." After giving him a stare that he found utterly unbearable, she went back to her chair, pulling it closer so that she could tug at his fingers.

"You can stay." He murmured, against his better judgment could be added.

"I can…"

"Stay the night, in the bed. It's big enough, and I assure you, I'm far to tired to attempt anything un-chivalrous."

Her lower lip quivered so intolerably that she bit down on it, only to notice that her entire jaw seemed to be affected. There was a pain in her chest now, well, more of a discomfort than an actual pain, more like the sensation of a thousand fluttering wings than a knife's blade—somehow Will knew that it had to have come from him. "A-all right."

* * *

She wanted him.

With all of her mind and body and soul. She wanted whatever it was that made her skin burn and scream so—her very insides were aflame—victim to this desire, she imagined that she would all but implode if it weren't quenched soon. Regardless of the situation, the plans and the tomorrow, she wanted him now—needed him, and she prayed that he'd let her have him.

Upon standing, she pinched his leg—hard, remembering Irma's words in her blurry little world. "What was that for?"

"Nothing." Hands shaking so horribly, and legs made into absolute jelly by her tenseness, Will ventured across the room to the other side of the bed, taking a seat near to the top and tugging at the laces of her shoes.

Breathing heavily, she mumbled through her chattering teeth and trembling lips, "It—It certainly is warm tonight."

"Are the windows open?"

"Yes…it's this," Her voice sounded off to her own ears, low and husky, weak and uneven. "Summer weather." Removing the knives and pearls from her pockets, Will carefully piled them next to the candleholder on the second bedside table.

Seeing them, he cocked an eyebrow to jest, "What are all of those? Intending to do me in?"

Too nervous to comment, Will fumbled with her dress. It fell from her shoulders in one noiseless heap, but tangled around her knees with the straps from her light chemise. After a good few moments of fruitless struggle, during which she had declined Caleb's two offers to help, she kicked off the entire thing, and watched it, disheartened, when it flopped to the floor.

_Why could nothing ever go right?_

Since he made no comments on it, Will made certain that she didn't either, sliding into bed, as discreetly as she could beneath the covers. "You'll be able to sleep then?" He asked at last.

She was drawing blood from her lips due to pressing into them with her teeth, _no_, no she wouldn't. Her heart was running a mile a minute, and she couldn't breathe. "Caleb…I…" The words wouldn't come, her mind was a blank, her skin felt as though—ants, yes _ants_, were marching over it. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight Will."

She might have cried then, for no other reason than feeling frustrated and overwrought, (in her mind, as good a reason as any). "I should ask while you're in such a good mood." The covers rustled during the time that he sought out her hand in the darkness—and upon finding it, he caressed her fingers tiredly, watching her as she stared, fixedly at the ceiling.

"Have you thought much about what I've asked?"

"Yes." She admitted, finally giving it up as a bad job and hoping that these sensation, would at the very least, vanish. "It's…it's all I have been thinking about."

"And…"

"I don't know if I'll make a good wife…" She gripped his hand tighter, "but I'll try for you. I'll do my best." She wished that she could be more bold, for even as she whispered those words to him in the coldness of the night, there was a part of her that spewed other things—impulses and words, this daring lass would rushed over to him and litter his face with kisses, describe to him exactly what it was that she was feeling and demanding—yes, demanding that he comply.

She stayed still.

* * *

"Can I kiss you?" Finally, Will breathed.

"You have to ask?"

"I…didn't want to startle you…with your wound…" Her skin was as white as a ghost by the time that she sat up, still avoiding his eyes, but hoping that he could hear the certainty in her voice.

"By kissing me?"

Was he laughing at her? No, she shelved the thought; no, he was merely—teasing…flirtation. It was fine. "I-I've never kissed you before," She ran her finger along her thumb, still trying to steady her heart. "I want to kiss you." Choking over the words, face so hot that it stung her arms when they accidentally touched, Will reached for him, dragging her fingers lightly over the soft, masculine curve of his upper lip. "I want to kiss you here…please."

He didn't protest, and Will came to the conclusion that it was best that she work now before he had the opportunity to. And so, pushing away the covers, she crawled over to him, hesitating to release his hand, but sacrificing the safety of his fingers for the velvet of his cheekbones.

She realized then that she didn't know how to kiss, she'd never had to do it before now—but it was too late to fix that—she closed her eyes and leaned forward, meeting his mouth then in a collision of lips and tongue and teeth.

* * *

Her mouth—those torrid, delicate pieces of flesh; closed over his bottom lip, suckling; taunting; beckoning; driving him insane with need. There was, as always, that tell-tale song of desire, humming sweet temptation in his ears—images as lucid and as unflinching as the day were carried along with his pounding blood—visions of him holding her; moving against her…within her, stole his breath. He needed to stop this—even though she claimed his mouth with all of the expertise of a practised woman—she was shaking in his arms like a leaf.

He managed to get her to pull away when she trapped his lower lip between her teeth, and nibbled and nursed it until she had him burning. "Where'd you learn to do that?" Struggling for his own breath, he looked up into her face to see that she was no better off.

_Right here, right now_, but she didn't stop to give details. "Can I kiss you here?" Her voice was hoarse, her intent, unmistakable. She trailed her fingers along his neck, sobering her mind with the knowledge that he too seemed vulnerable to these feelings. She marked the path with her mouth, leaving gentle, wet kisses along his flesh, ceasing only when he called her name.

In the few seconds that lay in between his cry and her retreat, she had conceived no less than a dozen reasons why he had wanted her to stop. At the top of that list stood the greatest fear: she had been doing it wrong. "Am…I doing it wrong?"

"No…" He was confused. Oh well that was much better than being repulsed—she was confused as well. They had something in common.

"Caleb…I want…I…I don't know how to say it." And she didn't, she still didn't. Her tongue darted forward to moisten her chapped lips; she opened her mouth to illustrate, but closed it promptly when there was still no justification in sight. "It's nothing. You need to rest."

Stupid really. He probably thought her a wanton now—she'd try to convince him tomorrow that she'd been intoxicated.

"Will." Before she could once again drift to her corner of the bed, he took a firm hold of one of her upper arms.

"Yes."

He didn't respond immediately, rather, he drew her beside him, urging her into a sitting position tucked beneath his arm, against his chest. "I want those things too."

Her heart, in her throat. "You do?"

"Yes. But…it's complicated."

He was taking it much better than she was. Well, supposedly, anyone would take it better than she was, for she had just in that second become reacquainted with the fact that he wasn't wearing any trousers.

His words crawled from his lips to lie in her heart, banishing the dirtying pools of self doubt and fear, strengthening her, blessing her, until her chest had tightened so excruciatingly that it hurt to draw breath. "I want to hold you until I can feel your every breath—I want you to know what it feels like to be worshipped, I want to make love to you Will, until my body can't bear to any more. I want all of these things for you, because you deserve them."

"Making love?" It seemed so precious, so wonderful—all that could pass between a man and a woman, feelings and sensations… "Is that what you call it?"

"But I can't Will, not tonight…I'm too weak…and," He touched her chin with his fingertips, tempting her face upwards so that he could easily leave a kiss on the tip of her nose. "When I first touch you, I want it to be as man and wife."

She would cry—her heart would break if she didn't—never had anyone ever—the way he looked at her mad her believe in those things that he said, that she was, she could be—

"What if I don't want to wait?"

He seemed more surprised than she by that reply, but he recovered almost immediately. "It'll be better if you do. I promise."

Will shook her head firmly then, ignoring the beginnings of his voice. "When I heard that shot yesterday…I'd never been more terrified in my life. I thought that you were dead…I thought…"

"I'm right here." He pressed her closer to him in such a way that she could feel his heart beating against his rib cage, thundering nearly as loud as her own. It steadied her.

"I was so afraid. I thought that I'd never see you again, that I would never be able to hold you and kiss you and tell you how I feel—" She closed her eyes, her tongue slipped on the words, "I'm in love with you, Caleb. I…I am. I'm certain of it, I know it now. And I want to show you how much…because I can't say it."

"Will…"

"Please," Now that there was nothing left to hide, no secrets and embarrassments, Will felt her shyness fading. She moved from beneath his arms, across his legs to kneel above him, a leg on either side of his body. Then she whispered, in as brave a voice that she could muster, "Let me. I want to feel you—all of you."

It was becoming painfully obvious that he had exhausted his supply of self control over the past few days, when he had made it his duty to ignore her – now he found that he couldn't in all honesty take his hands off of her. Still, he resisted, wanting to give her a night on a bed of rose petals, for as long as he could, a night of perfection and bliss.

"There'll be time for all of that…"

"But what if there isn't? What if there's no time at all?" She kissed his nose now, mimicking his gesture of affection.

"Your first time should be special, it should be perfect. I want that for you as well."

"It will be. I'll be with you." Her lips upon his forehead, his brows, and eyelids…he was truly lost long before she met his mouth.

* * *

The jolt of recognizable energy when his lips met hers—seemed magnified in this position—straddling him provocatively, her arms and legs bare save for a slick coat of perspiration…it made her insides liquefy. She was surrounded by him; his presence; his being was inescapable. When his tongue found its way into her mouth she gasped, never had she felt of aware of him, each careful brush of his limbs against her feverish flesh, made the feelings inside of her expand radically. This kiss was different from all of the others; then, she had been afraid of what he was showing her; pitifully unaware of what would transpire next. But now, she knew exactly where this would end…that was exactly where she wanted it.

Her hands fastened atop of his broad shoulders—for lack of knowing what else to do with them. That was before he took those same hands in his larger ones and held them in his warm grasp. The kiss was broken—by whom, Will didn't recognize, for any clear thoughts that she might have enjoyed were obliterated by the astonishing look of immense tenderness that she could easily see beneath his chaotic green eyes.

Her fingers twined with his, the tips fluttering along nervously atop of his skin, but his held steady, his eyes seemed to be their foundation, although, if she truly concentrated on it—she could just feel the rapid drumming of his pulse, calling after hers.

A low sound crept through her divided lips, Will's own way of making her epiphany known. Those indescribable thundering sensations that for so long had overtaken her mind, body and soul finally collapsed with all of the elegance of a train wreck. She could feel them now, in her pounding heart and in her racing blood as they tried to smother—to intoxicate her—and she wanted them to; Oh heavens how she surrendered, frantic to have him kiss her again, to hold her—to do anything other than just _look_ at her.

Her desperation practically toed the line of lunacy when he touched her, affectionately exploring the curves and hollows of her neck. She breathed again, and then swallowed, reminding herself to at least feign the appearance of perfect composure. She was wandering through alien territory now; gladly; steadily; but that still didn't change that fact that this was all completely foreign to her.

* * *

.

Caleb touched the side of her face – his mind's own small way of testing that she was authentic. She looked so winsome before him with her cherry lips parted as she near silently took breath; with her chocolate eyes glazed over, yet still overflowing with a passion that was so strong that there was no doubt in his mind that she could see right through him. Briefly, he wondered if she understood what she was giving him—if she had really thought it through. And it was only that thought that kept him from tearing off the rest of his clothes and making love to her right then.

"Are you nervous?" Caleb asked quietly. For he was certain that this was the only way to reassure his babbling conscience. Her entire being seemed to freeze at the question, and for a long moment she quietly decided upon an answer. "No," she murmured and with a jolt of surprise, she realized that it was the truth.

Will smiled at him—a watery smile, one that revealed every ounce of kindness and vulnerability that she too often tried to keep hidden. If anything, it made him feel a thousand times worse. But he shouldn't, it shouldn't…when he hadn't even expected her to say anything other than 'no'; that was simply in her nature. Although the impact that she trusted him after everything that he had done, _she truly trusted him_—she trusted him with her innocence…

"Are you?" Her voice was teasing, her face was set up in anticipation for his undoubtedly overconfident remark, he stared into the deep brown eyes, watching for each subtle change, for each flicker of hope or curiosity that he managed to wring from her.

He'd never done this before—the act itself, yes, certainly, heated couplings with perfumed women in the dead of the night. But **this**, he wanted to empty his very soul into **this**; he wanted to give her every shivering ounce of his body. He wanted **this**, to surpass the threshold of perfection.

"Terrified," he breathed, bowing his head as the magnitude struck him. He didn't see when the shadows stole the humour away from her, nor had he noticed when her eyes flooded with happiness so profound that it mimicked the pain of mutilation.

She shook her head slowly, dislodging some of the moisture in her eyes, _she was so lucky_…so unbelievably lucky to have him. She pressed her eyes shut, whispering thanks to a God that she had long deemed wicked for his role in her disgusting hair colour. Only something ethereal could be responsible for this…for him.

"Caleb, I…" her voice shook, the taste of tears made her tongue still, swollen; she stopped short, struck with the ice cold shock of what she had been planning to say. She bit her bottom lip awkwardly, hoping that he hadn't noticed. The tangle of red hair distorted her vision when she leaned forward, wishing to taste him again; to somehow show him with actions what she was too scared to hear herself say with words…words that had lingered, stagnant, polluting her stream of consciousness for an impossibly long time.

* * *

He moved backwards to look at her as she sat and looked at him, her was face dirty with tears, yet she was smiling at him through it all. She touched him on his cheek, the lightest of touches, as if she too couldn't understand that he was in actuality before her. Between them the air was heavy with emotion; it was too much to take breath, too overwhelming to imagine all that lay in this space.

Her heart knew and it spilled the knowledge into her mouth. The taste of enlightenment was sweet but all together these words were too much for the space, they leaked outside, bit by precious bit, and it was as though she heard it spoken by another being entirely: "I-I…I love you, more than anything…I-I…"

More tears ran down her face, her breath came in sharp sobs, "I do. I love you." Again, she whispered, again and again until she had said the words so many times that they moved like an echo, accompanied with a melody of immeasurable happiness, she edged closer, trying to dislodge a reaction from him…

_She would be the death of him._ He didn't doubt the reaction that her words had had on him, gratitude; intertwined with painful, immense euphoria…and sadness. Her words, her tears, served as a tangible reminder of the fears he possessed concerning her. How could he live up to her expectations? He couldn't bear to disappoint her—

He saw her tears, glimmers of liquid that captured her soul and lured the moonlight to its salty demise.

He moved his head as if to kiss her, only to pass his lips over her wet cheeks, "don't cry." A plea for her tears hurt him, and perhaps it was something that he'd need to get used to, the knowledge that she saw something decent inside of him, but it was too great to consider in this moment. He tasted the heat of her emotions on his lips, dutifully, he continued on in the awkward caress, attempting to kiss away any hint of pain that he may have caused her—for whatever reason.

She was shivering in the arms that were wrapped around her; the night seemed especially cold in comparison to the heat of his touch. Will turned her head, her lips, naked and trembling, parted to find his. She raised her arms from his shoulders to encircle his neck, blindly moving so that she could taste him, finally, she got her wish and he kissed her, tenderly, sweetly, deeply. Her tears lingered on his lips, so she could savour them, so she could feel the words that he was trying to say.

She smiled against his mouth, and from somewhere far off she could have sworn that she'd heard the heavenly acceptance of her gratitude.

* * *

There is a place somewhere along the shared journey of a man and woman, a place that is surrounded in the bliss of unity, and soaked in the delightful rays of unimaginable happiness. This is a place, found somewhere in our heart of hearts, buried deep within the ignorance of where one ends and the other begins. In a web of caresses, in a cocoon of tenderness, there is born an emotion so profound, so delicate and fragile—that you can't begin to imagine it.

There, in a storm of sensation, sorrows and kisses, love dances in the rain.

* * *

Caleb's lips drifted away to brush against her chin, venturing lower, crossing the sensitive skin of her neck, savouring in the salty sweet taste of her flesh; the incredible feel of her throbbing pulse as it danced frantically against his mouth. His stomach churned unexpectedly when his name stumbled from her lips in a breathless whisper; her warm breath stung his face while her lips struggled to caress his skin.

The night grew steadily warmer; the calming summer breezes journeyed further and further away, their absence going unnoticed. Her skin ached with the desire to touch and be touched, her hands moved uncertainly, from his hair to his neck, tracing unpredictable patterns on his face and later, shoulders. The undeniable innocence of her gentle hands coupled with the affectionate, apprehensive seduction of her mouth, were both exceedingly maddening, but he stopped his assault only when his presumptuous lips had met with the frail cotton resistance of her chemise.

The trepidation called once more, effortlessly dirtying the rivers of his desire. He could feel each tiny tremor in her slight frame, he could sense each ragged inhalation and jagged gasp. His hands moved lower slowly, barely touching the hem of her garment. He swallowed; his mind was disoriented, heavy with the burden of worry. But the heat from her skin enticed and tempted, and he had long discovered that its hold on him was simply too great to ignore, his hand slipped beneath the simple white cloth and pressed, softly, only just grazing the satiny skin of her naked leg, never once removing his lips from her pulse.

Will felt certain that she would break, die—disintegrate. It was necessary that he continue; it was absolutely essential. Her blood itself beckoned and boiled, turning desperate due to her impatience. Those last few moments had felt like an eternity to her mind, her insides had begun to scream with their eagerness, and the knowledge of his hands upon her bare skin provided more than enough inspiration for her to act upon.

She shifted in his embrace, and upon the realization that she was, indeed, moving; he dropped his insolent hand, and gazed at her face with an expression that was utterly apologetic. But even in the darkness, the look in her eyes could not be mistaken as fright, inquisitive, yes, mischievous…something jolted in his stomach…_maybe_. The sight of her lower lip trapped between her teeth was particularly distracting, his breath stilled as she leaned closer, nudging his head upwards with her face before kissing him gently.

Slowly, carefully, she removed her arms from about his neck and knotted her fingers in the simple white garment that fell as far as her knees, and then swallowing the uncertainty, exhaling the mortification, she tugged the fabric upwards, flinching when she felt the first kiss of the wind atop of her damp skin.

Her heart was pounding; her limbs had begun to quiver in a manner that betrayed her innate shyness. She remembered to breathe (it passed over her head, clumsily brushing against her chin and nose), wishing, very much to close her eyes and to simple bury herself in the pink flush that was creeping along her cheeks (she peeled it away from her hands, wordlessly tossing it onto the bed)…but she stayed still, watching his reaction—unreadable as it was.

A moment later, she had shifted her gaze, thoughts…things that she had hoped would forever desert her once here, sang to her…their lyrics were words that she knew too well…

* * *

Caleb's hand touched her face; she could feel the warmth that sprang from his fingers, fingers that were suddenly tracing the same strange and erratic patterns that she had invented. She looked at him, and brown eyes melted into green while he held her small hands in his own. He brought them to his mouth, brushed them against his lips and kissed the palms.

By now her mouth had dried out completely, her lungs felt so heavy that it was as though each breath taken was part of an epic struggle. She curled her fingers about his face, trying to hold onto the exquisite tenderness that he was showing her. She wanted it, yes, but she wanted him more.

Caleb's hand released hers to snake around her waist, silently easing her into the safety of his rough embrace; soon he was kissing her in a way that clawed at her trembling heart, whilst his other hand snaked upwards to her nape, tangling in her hair. There were no words to describe the feeling of his chest against her bare breasts. None to explain how his curious, wandering fingers made her whimper, overflowing with excitement, anticipation and something that was far more profound…

He pressed her closer to his own aching body, shuddering when the friction of her naked thighs grazing against his dislodged the sheet that separated their bodies. She didn't seem to notice, for she continued valiantly with her mouth, kissing and whispering—until soon, he nearly forgot as well.

Carefully, and then cautiously, for he was still convinced that any suddenness would cause her to shatter in his arms, he moved his palms downwards, over the shapes in her back, past the flare of her hip, the soft mountain of her rounded bottom—she whispered his name then, fuelling a rush of heat towards his arousal, but she didn't ask for him to stop.

She was so…perfect—untouched and all the more beautiful because of it. He could spoil this beauty…he knew that; he could easily ruin her with his gaze and with his touch…but he couldn't resist, he'd never been very good at fending off temptation. And she tempted him more than any others ever had.

* * *

Will stopped kissing him only when she felt him tug at her arms. She must look a sight, she thought, with her lips so swollen from kissing that they throbbed rhythmically with her heartbeat, hair that was tousled and thick from the heat and his fingers—but when she met his eyes in that thick blanket of night, all she saw was love, dissolving all other concerns and preoccupations.

"Can I kiss you?" He asked, the raspy nature of his voice made her heart shake when she heard it; nevertheless, she managed a small smile, mistaking his blatant anxiousness for teasing.

"You already were." Now, her legs had started to ache from being bent for so long, but she didn't complain. If she did she was certain that Caleb would move and hurt himself—he shook his head.

"I mean…can I kiss you here." The slightest feather of a touch against her neck, made warmer, more seductive through the sweat—she nodded and then whispered "yes". Lips grazed lightly against her heated skin, pausing at the hallow that exaggerated the location of her collar bone and depositing several kisses there, trying to chase away the covetous shadows. Her body was bathed in darkness, as though the moon herself had fallen to worship her.

He was tempting her upwards she realized, pulling her higher, away from the discomfort of her position, urging her off the backs of her legs until his mouth was nearly level with her chest. Lost now, nearly stammering and incoherent, she whispered what she didn't know to be words, simply sounds, sighs, and later, as he dragged his hand along the valley between her breasts (driving her into absolute delirium), moans.

Caleb moved slowly, wanting to relish in the taste of her skin, the differences in the textures of her limbs and her torso, sprinkling kisses everywhere—her arms, her neck, the skin on her chest, pausing once to linger by the soft mountain of pale flesh. She curved slightly in his arms, instinctively urging him closer, all the while muttering his name in that voice that he had dreamed of for ages…he pressed a tentative kiss against the underside of one raised mound…silk…sweet, rich silk.

Her jagged gasp of surprise caused a piercing song of desire to cry out in his chest. Caleb lifted his head, groggily searching for the yearning tip, and then, like a hunter, baiting out his prey, he took it into his mouth, waiting for the sounds that came from her throat.

He knew just how women could be in bed: loud, crude, screaming with their pleasure—but her soft, gentle gasps and sighs were easily the most appealing thing he'd ever experienced. He could discern her every reaction from the state of her breathing…

Liberating one breast, he moved to the other, while his hand took the place of his mouth on the first, memorizing the shape and the sensation, he was amazed to find her fingers in his hair, pulling the thick locks away from his face…from her skin…her body writhed again even as he eased her backwards, when he kissed the ledge where her ribcage ended—

"Open your eyes…" For she had pressed them shut, her fingers wound tightly in his hair; hesitantly she complied, slowly seeking out his face in the darkness. He pressed her downwards then, back into her initial position, ceasing only when he was level with her lips, "Is…is it supposed to be like this?"

He smiled at her face, her sweet, tortured expression that bridged on confusion. "I don't…know." He swallowed, praying that she couldn't see her confusion reflected on his face, she stared blindly for a while before admitting, "maybe, I'm…a little nervous…just a little."

"Only a little?" Suppressing a laugh he kissed her, slowly, carefully, not wanting to scare her anymore than she should be. Hands wrapped about his neck, and she pulled herself closer, her lithe body rose before his like a flower opening its petals towards the sun, and that was how she felt, as though she were silently reaching towards a blissful source, one that was trapped within the heat of his body.

* * *

"Lie down for me love." His skin was aflame now, his entire body turgid and hard, his voice the only tender thing about him in that moment. She promptly declined his request, forcing out the brisk "no" even as she continued to brush heated kisses against his shoulder.

"Your side." And she pressed a gentle hand there as means of further explanation. "You're still hurt."

"You let me worry about that."

"No." Voice stern now, she pulled away sharply, dislodging his arms from her body in one swift motion. "Caleb…"

"You told me that this was what you wanted. So let me give it to you." Wrapping his fingers in those wonderful gossamer tendrils, he kissed her slowly again, lengthy, delicate bites that soon had her heart racing again. He would be the first, the first to touch her like this, kiss her like this, see and take the wealth of emotions and feelings that she could offer. And by God, he'd be the last.

This needed to be faultless. He would make her understand that.

* * *

He found her quiet surrender to be unbearably arousing—she slumped effortlessly against him, allowing him the freedom of shifting and positioning her petite frame on the bed next to him. He followed her into the motion, turning his body onto hers, allowing her for the first time to feel the strength of his desire for her.

She didn't pull away as he had feared that she would, and if she was worried, it showed only in the slight quickening of his breath when he kissed her again.

The tips of her breasts grazing against his chest were very near his undoing, he groaned at the feeling, at the pain of trying so hard to be gentle with her, and she pulled away after hearing it, afraid that she had done something terribly wrong.

He wouldn't let her; instead he returned to her mouth, until she surrendered her lips to him once again. Her fingers seemed intent on investigation, even as her tongue swirled in the madness that he'd created, her hands swept through his hair, then over the sides of his face, into the shells of his ears, to drift over his neck, his shoulders, his back.

Caleb pulled away reluctantly, certainly unable to quell the fire of desire, that was even now licking at his veins, any longer. He whispered words of reassurance into her hair, love words; hope words, hesitating only to intoxicate his spirit with her perfume before once again drifting over her torso.

His lips collided with her now dampening skin, and somewhere hidden in the shadows above her hips, his mouth grew bolder, now in this sultry darkness he was free to show her all that he had come to know. She gasped again, her body shivering and fluttering, burning and scorching, despite the moisture that floated on its surface.

She whispered his name when his mouth found her navel, and her frame curved upwards once again, searching, craving, and needing—but not finding, for he had moved away.

He swallowed, his side was burning, painfully urging him into submission, he struggled to ignore it—the temptation, that is by reminding himself of her, she who he wanted to remember this night forever.

Her hands were curled by her sides, clutching the sheets as though they could save her from this delicate torment, aware of only his lips, his tongue, and occasionally the feather light brush of his hair. She knew that logically, there should be embarrassment, but alas, when her head fell back unto the mattress, she knew all that she had ever acknowledged to be true had been torn asunder by this storm of desire and longing, she had been ripped apart, made tiny, naked and vulnerable by this massive, looming sensation, a slave to these emotions.

Caleb's hands were on her legs now, slowly caressing the velvety skin of her calves and thighs, dropping his head every so often in order to sample the taste of this forbidden flesh—she writhed beneath him, pressuring herself to remain still to protect herself from humiliation that would undoubtedly find her once the dusk had retreated.

Then, he was easing her legs apart, and there was the first touch of cold night air upon her centre, she stiffened and instinctively tried to resist his advances…pushing her knees _together_—

He was by her side in a second, kissing her face, her nose, her cheeks and her hair; working tirelessly to calm her. "Don't worry…"

"I'm not," she breathed, but she changed her mind soon after, once again fearful of disturbing the rightness of the moment. "Kiss me," she whispered, but he was already on her lips, calling out her tongue, whispering her name against her trembling flesh.

* * *

His own body wasn't holding out any better, if his hands were shaking as he moved them over her stomach, then they were practically uncontrollable by the time he found the soft triangle of crimson curls. Softly, she cried out against his mouth, but he hushed her again, telling her in a deep, rough voice that everything would be fine. And she believed him…responding not to the sea of excitement that was boiling within the depths of her stomach, but to the timbre of his slow, steady voice.

The throbbing in her stomach merely deepened with his touch, it brought with it the life of a delightful passion that whispered to her, calling to her in his voice, twisting her desires and needs so that they rested, temptingly over a chasm filled with—bliss.

She whimpered again, her fingers clenched and unclenched, digging into the sheets in an attempt to drag some semblance of control upwards into her awaiting soul, for currently the only thing that was leaked into her being was the urgency that she could sense in him, it collided with the rush of frantic emotions in her gut, making sob helplessly into his neck, a victim of his gentle, teasing touch.

He was leading her towards something—something that was too amazing to imagine. She gasped when a shudder of excitement shook her for the first time, and then, overcome by desperation she began to move her hips to meet his hand, his wonderful touch, this unnamed sensation that suddenly had held her captive.

Beneath him, she was exquisite, and once again he was so very aware of every shudder and tremor that wracked her body, although now, it was even more intense, now that he making love to her in this way.

Her mouth danced over the muscles in his neck, whispering pleas, scattering damp kisses until finally ending in soft moans, which held his name within. His flesh was on fire, his own breathing was fragmented and rapid, his heart seemed intent on escape; and when she stiffened suddenly, crying out, he took her mouth with more violence than he knew himself to possess.

Will was far too dazed to respond, in her mind, her soul had been stolen, only to have been returned with shattering abruptness. She felt disembodied, her limbs felt heavy, her head, light, and her lips, as they moved under his, were aflame.

He pulled away to look at her, suddenly overcome with the unmistakable beauty of her, brought to life in this soft, vulnerable state. She smiled at him with her kiss-swollen lips, before closing her watery eyes and inhaling a long breath into her heavy chest.

And she was his—

"Thank you." Languid now, and remarkably tired, Will uttered the single thing that was in the mind that even at this moment struggled to right itself.

"Are you falling asleep?"

"Maybe." She gave him a flirtatious smile, "why?"

"This, my dear—is why you should have slept when I told you to." Her dark eyes moved over his features, pausing at that ledge into which his eyes lay, urging the emotions held there upwards. He felt the jolt, the surge of power that once again left him winded, the tentative creep of those earth shattering, blinding thoughts—and lowered his head, not understanding, simply acknowledging…

When she finally pulled his face down to hers, he was smiling against her mouth. Now, the kiss was gentle, restrained, it melted away the desperation—she was here, in his arms, warm and willing, there was no need to rush this.

* * *

Lips floated over hers, cool and soft as his hands snaked downwards to her thighs. Now, her body shifted without his prodding, her legs fell apart, granting welcome to those wandering fingers, and when he again made contact with her tender-most part, she effortlessly curved her body upwards into his. "Will…" she had turned face away the instant he'd released the hold he had obtained on her lips, now, he kissed the curve of her neck, upwards, journeying over the subtle echoes that came from her throat, to her ear, going no further now, decidedly teasing the delicate skin there.

She was lost beyond the realm of clear thoughts and sane words—her entire world seemed focused on him and on those feelings—those miraculous feelings that only he seemed to be capable of awakening in her. In that dark, deep haze, she called to him in breathless defeat.

* * *

Her touch had made him burn, and the heat now pouring from his body had made him impatient—although far, far more difficult was the mere fact that her words had made him still, concerned and diffident, knowing, so indescribably aware of the pain that would follow for her…and even more anxious to discern some way for him to lessen it.

"Will…" trembling, he weakly implored her to look at him…she obeyed, eyes cavernous due to the wash of sensation he had previously inflicted on her, her soul was breaking now—the fragments lost to the depths of his voice.

His body shifted to position itself between her legs and suddenly she was made aware of both the removal of his hands and the sudden, probing heat that lay poised to caress her so intimately.

"I won't hurt you." He swore it more to himself than to her, but she still smiled upon hearing it. "I know."

"It's only for a moment…it won't last…" his words held her like the winds of a tumultuous storm, shielding her ravaged frame as though they could save her from a suffering not yet inflicted. She whimpered softly as she felt him enter her, he halted at the sound, kissing her tenderly before telling her in a voice that was shaped rough due to the torment in his body, promises and pleas…

…finally, understanding reached her. "Caleb…" she couldn't speak, the words that she yearned for seemed so far beyond her grasp…instead she wrapped her arms about his neck, sighing softly, she buried her face in the curve of his neck, forcing her body to calm and relax against the intrusion, urging him deeper, hoping without a sound that he would somehow fill her, for she had never known emptiness like this before, she had never realized just how lonely she had been without him.

His arms had moved beneath her and his fingers were splayed against the base of her spine, he was cradling her in his arms, pressing her soft body against his until there was naught separating them but the thin sheen of perspiration that was coating them both. He held her closer still, so that her rapid heartbeat was attacking his chest as well as her own.

He pressed deeper, slowly; she was opening, her body sheathing his impaling member, calling him into the silken softness of her core. He heard the stifled cry of his name at the same time that he encountered the fragile wall that protected her innocence.

Caleb withdrew then, just slightly, swallowing before managing to whisper into her cherry red hair, "I'm…sorry."

* * *

He felt the shudder that passed through her following the hasty action, and was subsequently forced to withhold the groan of excruciating pleasure that stood strong on the tip of his tongue.

The rate of her breathing had increased substantially over the last few moments, as had the pressure of her grip upon the column of his neck. Never in all of her wildest textbook imaginings or in the stories from those whispered girls could she have even conceived—this—this union, this unimaginable euphoria that had to have been borne in the minds of angels…

She could feel him; rather, he was inside of her, the missing piece of the puzzle that she hadn't quite honestly realized that she'd been missing…the discomfort was already fading, his lips were again mouthing apologies and praise…his inhales were slowly becoming her exhales, and she closed her eyes and relished in this arsenal of awareness, knowing that for the first time in her life, she was complete.

"Caleb," she whispered, moving her face ever so slightly so that she could perhaps see him, "I can feel you." It was all she could manage, for even now, he was holding her tightly against himself, as if he could somehow take the soreness into his frame.

He heard the words, the startled admission, and drew back until he could find himself staring deeply into those handsome mahogany eyes, glazed over with lust, passion and love. "Will…" What could he say to her? What would express these torturous emotions that grew stronger with her every motion? He could feel her shiver, the rapid _thud_ of her racing pulse and the spicy smell wafting upwards from her hair—and the heat, the blessed warmth that came from being trapped inside of her—He would never be able to tell her just how much— "I am yours, angel."

And he prayed that she understood it.

* * *

From the swamp of desire that had flooded his stomach there sprang a mist that was caked with longing in its strongest form. It drenched his mind and senses, and finally condensed when she tightened her muscles experimentally around him…and so, all hope for self-control gone, he began to move…

It seemed to her, in those few, fleeting moments when she was able to construct intelligent thoughts, that her entire world was coming to an end…or, perhaps, or even more frighteningly, it was simply now beginning.

He had somehow found a rhythm, using long sure strokes to carry her across yet another barrier, one that was raised higher up, far into the heavens where only absolute bliss dwelled. He stayed there within the cradle of her legs, moving within her, staying with her, holding her until her gasps became and whimpers and cries, until she had risen to the zenith of feeling, calling his name—begging him to join her there.

The clouds over his mind rained sweet gratification as he too followed her into the magnificent ascent; he poured his life into her, once again left astounded and speechless at the depth of feeling that she had drawn from him.

* * *

_He was crushing her_; she noted when the lights and the sensations had all but vanished, but it felt too nice to bother him to move, the proximity, if not the crushing. And she could breathe later, she decided while running her fingers through the pools of perspiration on his back, right now she simply wanted to relish in the aftermath, the warm, tingly feeling that she got when he moved his legs and face. Will decided then that she'd rather enjoyed this foray into intercourse—if not the activity itself then the sensations that lingered when it was all finished.

He seemed to recognize that she was under him in the next instant, for he pushed himself upwards remarkably quickly, disentangling their bodies as he did, and then rolled onto his back in the space next to her. She followed him, for which he was grateful, and pressed her head against his chest while he fumbled with the covers until he had them both blanketed.

He stroked her back leisurely, wordlessly urging her into a slumber—but she couldn't, not when her entire body still burned with the memory of his words and his touch, she felt so alive—just brimming with these new feelings, warmth and belonging. She edged closer into the curve of his side.

"Is it going to be like this every time?" She had a thousand questions, for she was incredibly curious about this new level of intimacy.

He laughed when he first heard her words, "It's barely over and you're worried about the next time?" And then he rewarded her with a light kiss on her forehead for her perversion. "I hope that it will be better for you the next time." _The next time_—it was still awkward to consider this as something that would be repeated, it seemed so fresh and new. "It won't hurt as much."

"It wasn't painful," she confessed, well, perhaps there was pain, but she was so engrossed in pleasure that she scarcely felt it. "I actually…I liked it. I like this part too…I like it when you're like this."

He didn't reply, finding that he was suddenly ridiculously sentimental—he eased her closer still. "This—this wasn't your first time…was it?" Her voice was still breathy, still husky and sultry, but he could still pinpoint the uncertainty, the self-consciousness.

"No." He admitted, but quickly followed it with, "But you'll be my last. I swear it…there isn't any way I could have another after you."

She seemed satisfied, and curled herself tighter against his body. "Are you going to sleep now?"

"Yes." She mumbled, now wrapping an arm about his midsection, careful to avoid the long white strip that highlighted his discomfort. "You'll be here when I awake…won't you?"

Of course he would—yet, it pained him that she had even asked. "I'm never leaving you love. I promise."

* * *

**Author:** Damn straight!

All right, to be honest. This sex scene was supposed to be in chapter 28 now after the final edit, basically because chapter 25 and 24 were too long, and so the numbers got crossed. So after careful editing and copying pasting, I decided to put it in chapter 26 where it was supposed to be—since I'd been flaunting it in your faces for months.

I also decided to post it here since it doesn't really qualify as a dirty explicit anything, just a mess of fancy words and feelings. I didn't even get to say vagina. :( It's too mushy, I got all wrapped up in it and couldn't create the porn that I wanted…

I did get this posted so quickly because of what Zadien told me, poor baby, I hope that you can read it before July now. And besides I wrote this in August of 2006, it was just catching dust.

And to address the experience queries that I always get, this was written through intense research, not the fun kind either, more like the reading dozens of harlequin novels and hoping for the best.

Time to go whoring for reviews now. Ahem.

Hey good looking, you wanna click on that little button there—oh yes, so it and I'll show you a good time ;)

Seriously! I deserve a comment, I know you lingerers! Dammit! I worked hard now click the damn button!


	27. Chapter 27

**According To Plan**

**By Seniya**

Chapter Twenty Seven

* * *

He had never in his life shared a bed with another human being—and that he had realized a sizeable two hours into lying next to her. She, who had drifted off to sleep less than a good ten minutes after their lovemaking, and had stayed asleep for the better part of the night. 

Caleb hadn't been so slumberous; after all, he had essentially slept for the greater part of a day—and now, with her lovely, lithe body pressed exquisitely close against his, he discovered that he wasn't really sated at all. Not fully, anyways. And it didn't help matters that Will was an incredibly restless sleeper—and simply too soft and supple for a girl her size. Each toss sent a thigh across his leg, any stretch caused the swell of her bosom to brush against his arms…And so, soon it appeared that he had been seduced almost completely by a woman who was fast asleep.

He had thought of waking her and returning the favour with a more valiant, passionate approach but he did know that she was tired, and despite his lack of experience bedding virgins, he knew that she would be quite sore, and so he let her sleep.

It didn't help his arousal much though—and so he attempted to steer his attention to a more…restrained…area. For example, what to say to her once she awoke. Despite her passion and acquiesce, he suspected that regret would come with her awakening, once the full weight of what she'd sacrificed dawned on her. She would have questions he knew, she'd want to know how and whys, wheres and whens. She deserved answers to those questions, answers that didn't revolve around flowery prose and vague promises.

Truthfully, he'd blurted out words like "love" and "marriage" without a second's hesitation, forgetting momentarily, that while it was all very well and good to quell the questions in one's heart, those in one's mind burned on.

They'd need somewhere to live if this marriage idea was to be taken seriously. Someplace nice and roomy—safe of course, since children—yes children, would eventually have to be considered. In fact, and he spared a lingering glance over to Will's immobile frame, children could well be on the way now. He found somehow that he didn't mind, although he'd never placed himself in the role of _father_. Will would adore children, she'd relish in the opportunity to dote upon a child, feeling somehow it was necessary to atone for the shortcomings of her own childhood. And he'd enjoy watching her, and those pretty little girls with his eyes and her smile, young, strapping boys with their mother's crimson locks.

Perhaps he was jumping too far ahead—the vows had yet to be uttered, and more importantly, they still had nowhere to go after the church. Since he'd been a boy in his father's estate he had heard tales of America: a place they claimed that any man could make his fortune if he was a hard, honest worker. He, admittedly, wasn't honest, and he had only come to America in the first place because the commission that he had bought in the army had run out, and his overly zealous Earl of a father was determined to see him wed, bred and then, at home.

He could stay in America. He'd be willing to put an end to his life of lies for her. He could a job doing _something_, somewhere and he was certain that he could make her happy. But happiness —Will wasn't the sort of girl who lusted after trinkets, furs and gowns – yet, he couldn't dismiss the feeling that she should have them, even if they only decorated the insides of her closets.

As the heir to an Earldom, he would be able to give her that and much, much more. Give their children that – all it would take was for him to go back home. Although that was something that he was remarkably hesitant to do. Caleb could already see his father's self-satisfied face, he'd predicted that he'd return after all…

Face grim, and now severely distracted due to the mounting pain in his side, Caleb broke away from his thoughts. It was his wound, he noted, and it had started bleeding again, undoubtedly due to his recent exertions. It'd need to be cleaned again, the bandage changed, but truly nothing that he couldn't manage by himself.

Careful to remain as quiet as possible, Caleb removed his hand from about Will's shoulders, ignoring the way that his stomach quaked when he saw her body unconsciously seek his once he'd pulled away.

There were worse things than going home, he decided. Arrogant, selfish, drunken father and all; Will would have whatever it was that her little heart desired, be it crown jewels or flowers – he'd ensure her contentment, because he could bear it to be otherwise.

* * *

It was the first conclusion that she'd arrived at when she awoke: _she was naked_. And such a strange realization it was to come upon at that early hour in the morning (or late hour at night, she couldn't be certain), with her head and mind still intoxicated with the wine of slumber—and of course, with the unprecedented arrival of the _second_ finding: _she wasn't alone in her bed_. And then, of course, the Zeus of all discoveries: the stranger was naked as well. 

Alone, each of these was worrisome enough, but combined—oh lord, they were horrific. But slowly, as these things have a way of doing, the memories from the night before made themselves quite clear, and then, instead of feeling horrified, Will found herself nervous beyond a reasonable doubt.

She wanted something to say – and regardless of the hundreds of questions swarming her mind, none of them at this moment seemed appropriate and so she stayed quiet. Was he vexed with her? No, he'd given her no reason to think so – he was asleep for God's sake! And she was naked. Yes, that was a problem…perhaps he wouldn't awaken until morning and in that case, she didn't want to be unclothed when he did, it was a known fact that things looked different in the daylight. Perhaps he hadn't noticed some things last night, and, well she didn't want to ruin it for him.

Will made a careful attempt to untangle herself from his arms, tucking the sheet beneath her armpits and scooting over to the side of the bed where, she remembered that her clothes had fallen, or had rather, been tossed.

Last night had been – _amazing_. Yes, and that would have to do, for at that very moment a thousand recollections streamed into her mind and stole her thoughts. He loved her, he'd said so, and he'd kissed her in a way that caused her to believe it as well. And other things – making love – despite general obscurity seemed to be a remarkable event, one that she hoped that she would be experiencing again very soon. She wouldn't mind terribly if he awoke right now to go again – but perhaps those things weren't proper.

Maybe it was simply something done only when the mood struck, or when the man was feeling particularly amorous. Truly, before she hadn't a clue what she'd been expecting, just that she loved it when he kissed her, and truly yearned for more than just a brush of his lips.

Perhaps – no, she could just lay back down. He loved her, he'd said so, and she loved him back. She didn't mind him looking at her…she had nothing to be ashamed of. Decidedly crawling closer to his warmth, Will curled up against his body, pressing her leg tentatively against his before surrendering to the pleasure that his proximity brought with it.

He was very well built for a man. And although she did have very little knowledge concerning the male anatomy, she could respect the graceful cut of his muscles and the strong shape of his arms. There was a light dusting of hair on his chest, one that grew steadily denser as her eyes moved downwards. So engrossed was she with his torso in fact, that she never noticed when he awakened.

* * *

He caught her staring at his naked chest much too soon, although instead of mocking her, as she'd feared that he might, he'd only pulled her closer in order to place a warm kiss atop of her forehead, one that had her worries receding in seconds. 

"How did you sleep, beautiful?" His voice was warm and strong, a comforting baritone that she could feel building in his chest when she was this close to him.

"Nice…I mean well, I slept well." It was odd to consider that _beautiful_ meant her, it was even stranger still to recall the mountains of adjectives he had called her last night during their lovemaking, words that still made her heart tremble when she remembered them.

She ran her flattened palm along the planes of his torso, feeling each sharp ridge of muscle and raised protrusion, half expecting him to tell her to stop, half praying that he wouldn't. Heart still racing, she encountered the thin sheet of fabric that covered his wound. "Does it hurt still?"

"Trust you to ruin the mood." With a wry grin that awakened the gooseflesh on her arms and legs, he casually traced the soft slope of her cheekbones with his fingers.

"I know how you are," Staring into his laughing green eyes, she did try to keep her tone stern, "you'd be haemorrhaging and not tell me."

"Nothing hurts." And to prove his good health, he tugged her upwards to kiss her small mouth, "You don't have to coddle me. I'm fine."

"But…I heard…" And she had, last night, she'd heard him leave the bed, watched him as he washed his wound, "I mean, I imagined that I heard…never mind."

Very visibly, she sank further into the covers, pulling them up to her chin, and recalled her once wandering hand. "Why do you do that?" He asked.

"Do what?"

"Say something and then stop." She caught his eye then, stopping to laugh at his accusation, "I don't…I mean well…I don't know."

"I want you to know that you can tell me anything that you'd like to."

"You'll regret that request." But the smile gracing her lips was telling him that she was grateful to hear it. "You tell me most things that I don't care to hear in any case." He countered, and once again lured her closer to his body, desperate it seemed, for her delicious warmth.

Few moments passed in that comfortable silence, she tucked her head into the curve of his shoulder, then taking a long, deep breath before she began, "I heard you. Last night. When you changed the cloth."

"I was…" He had been intending to lie about it, to explain to her that it was simply because the fabric had been chafing, reluctant of course to have her worry again – somehow however, once he met her warm mahogany eyes, the truth slipped forth, "it had started bleeding again."

"My fault?" She whispered, hesitant to know the answer.

"No." He caught onto her diffidence and with practiced arrogance, he stated with mock bravado, "I slept too much on one side."

"My fault." She pressed, but eased her face upwards to kiss his cheek.

"I'm not complaining." He grinned, tipping her chin sideways so that he could capture her lips beneath his.

She relished in the softness of his lips coupled with the ferocity of his tongue and when he snaked a hand around her body to grip the base of her skull, she practically moaned, crushed to insensibility by his mouth. It was the sound that made him stop, aware then that while he could attempt to hush his own desires, hers were another matter altogether.

"You…you…liked it then?" She breathed, although it took him a good few moments to register what she was referring to. _Last night_. Well, more likely a few tender hours ago. Memories: kisses, caresses, words…all still fresh in his mind. "How could you think anything else?"

Something that had been hiding quite well behind her deep brown eyes vanished suddenly and a new emotion overtook her face entirely, she smiled up at him unashamedly wordlessly appealing to him for a kiss. It didn't take long for him to comply, for he thoroughly enjoyed her when she was this warm and pliant. However when she pressed her lovely body closer, casually pressing a warm hand against his chest, he captured the wandering limb in his own vice like grip, causing her to break the kiss.

What she saw was him looking at her palm intensely—strange behaviour, she thought, for him to kiss her one second and then stare at her hand. "What's wrong?"

"My mother could read palms, she would do mine when I was younger." She had never once heard him speak anything of his parents, and so, hungry for more of what she felt was a very precious piece of information, she blurted out the first thing that sprang to her over excited mind. "Truly? I read about it…in…in a book…" Realizing that such things sounded particularly foolish, she tried to cover her faux pas with a stab at maturity, "but I didn't know that people could actually do that."

He was silent after that, seemingly lost in a deep realm of thought that he was unwilling to welcome her into. He was tracing patterns idly into her skin with his fingertips, and so she asked, more curious than anything else, "Could you do mine?"

"Certainly." He smiled, and then pondered the obscure lines on her tiny hind with a grave severity. "This line here…" He spoke at last, "means that you…are the worst, most scandalous drunk…" She pulled her hand away then and stared at her open palm with an openly incredulous look twisted upon her pretty face, it seemed from where he was that she was half expecting to see the words themselves in large black print jotted across her skin.

"It doesn't say that!" She laughed and half-heartedly smacked him on the chest.

"Oh yes, right here—see the way that it's curved, it says to watch your spirits, and this—oh dear—" He watched her with large, mournful eyes. She found herself laughing again. "What?"

"This one here well it says that you are encouraged to enjoy more romps in ponds—under my guardianship of course."

"Of course."

"There's something about romance as well."

"Is there?" There was something to be said about lying here, stark naked beside this stark naked man, watching as he attempted, whole-heartedly to distract her from her blatant awkwardness.

"It says that you are soon to be besotted by a handsome man."

Will decided to play along and so she feigned a drastic gasp of surprise. "How handsome?"

"Remarkably."

"Lucky me. What's he like?"

"You know the type." And he brushed a kiss across the middle of her palm. "Green eyes, brown hair. He's tall with a wonderful personality."

Will nodded rigorously. "I thought that I knew who before…but that personality bit threw me off…I don't know any of those. I'll have to be very watchful for when he arrives."

He smiled his lazy smile then, and before she could think of what he meant to do, he touched his mouth to hers and lowered her back onto the pillows. His lips were magical, tender and rough, all at the same time. He was leading her someplace with his hot series of kisses, and when he brushed his tongue along the line of her throbbing pulse, Will decided that she would follow. Sighing her acquiesce, she arched her back, wrapping her arms about his neck at the same time that their bodies touched.

"Maybe…" Her lips were warm, and when he whispered against them, they stung. "You should go back to your room now."

"Why?" And she kissed him again, nibbling at his mouth with her teeth, remembering that he liked it when she did that. Yes…_why?_ An answer seemed so useless to him at this moment, for she had turned her attentions to the muscles in his neck…_was that her tongue? _"Because…you're still…sore from before…" He managed to grind out his answer, and she did pause then.

"No. No I'm not." When in truth she was, but she didn't care about any lingering tenderness too much. She wanted to feel him again, she wanted those kisses and those words, those feelings—"I want to…if…if you want to."

Caleb imagined that she would soon discover that men always _want to_. He touched his lips to her blushing cheek, relishing, momentarily in her soft, clean smell. "I won't hurt you." He promised in an unwavering voice.

"Of course not." She wanted him, wanted and needed him and nothing would change her mind from that fact. Oh, how it had grown, from mere attraction to a dangerous obsession to this…all consuming, blistering need; one that ate away at her very core and yet lingered, still hungry for more…he was a part of her now, or at least he possessed a large portion of her person. Will recognized that she would never be whole again without him—or at least until he allowed her to take from him what he had stolen.

Although, was it even possible to reclaim a heart?

* * *

"I love you." She breathed when they parted, merely because she wanted to hear him echo the phrase. But he didn't then—actually, he moved away completely. 

Caleb wanted to kiss her again, he wanted to feel her wonderful softness around him as it pulled and clenched, he longed to whisper words of lust and passion into her cherry hair. But the ache that had been plaguing him for days now, seemed intent on tormenting him, and so he rolled from on top of her, collapsing beside her on his back. Aware of more than one throbbing pain in his body.

"Caleb?" Dazed now, and more than a little confused, Will turned onto her side to question him further. "Up," he muttered and to her surprise he only pulled her closer, pulled her atop of him in fact—and then eased lower seconds later, in favour of his bandaged side. A smile warmed her flushed face and Will eased her hand into the darkness beside them, reaching for the covers and then cloaking herself in them once she had them in her grip.

The night had become warm again, dense and thick, stifled suddenly by the unrelenting perfume of desire. Her skin was burning, her heart thundering, and he was peeling the covers off of her shoulders, sending her skin deep into an abyss of sensations. She thought of closing her eyes and hiding from his gaze—but decided against it only moments after—his eyes never made her feel like hiding.

Pressing arms down on either side of him, Will eased forward, meeting his mouth with hers, hoping to share with him her desire—

But she knew that he was probably just as aware as she. His breathing had slowed when she had moved, and his hand gripped her shoulders when she kissed his chest for the first time. She bent lower, so that her mouth could brush against the side of his face; then she dragged her parted lips against his temple, tasting him in a way that she had never dared to before, relishing in the feeling and near salty flavour of him. She bestowed small, nervous kisses along his jaw line before cupping his face in her both of her hands.

He was trying to remain calm. To be composed as she kissed him and touched him, intending of course to prolong her pleasure for as long as possible. But it seemed impossible now—_God, she was good at this_.

"You have a lot of scars." She whispered.

An odd emotion wrapped around his heart, making it difficult for him to breathe. There was a yearning, rebellious tenderness that could freeze his blood at the thought of her face; the insatiable boiling that seemed to inflame his flesh whenever he actually saw her…right now he was tormented; torn; his body being ripped to shreds due to the struggle of feeling both hot and cold at the same instant; a sensation that he was certain that only she could create in him.

"Yes. I…I know." And he was shaking, trembling as though he were some smooth faced lad in the middle of his first encounter with a woman. And nothing helped to soothe him, he noticed. Over time his body had become so aware of hers; especially now, when they were both alone in the comfortable, persistent darkness. Ribbons of her scent clung to the heavy twilight and brushed against the side of his face—hands; invisible; uncaring; reached through his defences to embrace the memories of her kisses, then, coldly, they dragged them to the surface—submerging him in a rush of frigid sensation.

She found the first mark, a particularly long one near his collarbone. "Was this a knife?" He wished that she wouldn't ask, there were some—one just above his hipbone especially, that was remarkably long and had its origins at the point of a bayonet. He hoped that she wouldn't ask of them, but if she did, he decided that he'd be honest. "Yes." Not quite certain what she had intended to do, he was truly taken aback when she pressed her lips to the raised mound of skin, acting as though she could heal it with her kisses.

It seemed to him then that perhaps her finding the one near his hip wasn't a particularly bad occurrence. Then she bent her head and placed a series of lethargic kisses along his midsection.

He had somehow forced his body to calm, nothing short of a miracle honestly, but now, due to the teasing feeling of her satiny skin across his body, his blood burned once more, and a groan stilled deep in his chest.

Will leaned further over him, for a long moment drenching his senses in her aroma, her lips; her warm, sweet mouth kissed his pectorals, while her hand moved over his arms. She paused to survey his reaction through hooded eyes. "Does that feel the same way…like when you do it to me?"

"Will…" And so it seemed that she was enticing him using the very same techniques that he had used on her last night. Taking his breathlessness as a signal for encouragement, Will placed another warm kiss on the nipple, and then slid across his chest to its twin.

"Will…" he swallowed and held a lock of her red hair before it fell into her eyes, resisting the urge to pull her lips down on his when her face fell at his protests. She shook her head slowly, before kissing his chest again, listening to his shaky breathing and unsteady heartbeat, willing that to give her strength. It was easier to feel brave in the dark, or perhaps it was because of him, he, who she wanted to pleasure just as he had pleasured her.

More than once she encountered a raised section of flesh, those she would trace with her fingers, touching them with her lips, and then tenderly caressing them with her mouth, as though she could make them all vanish. It was obvious that she had never done this before for she would pause every few moments to watch him with her round, curious eyes. Still all the inexperience in the world didn't dampen her eagerness, and she continued along the length of his body, lingering only when she heard him groan.

There was a slight line of hair that led into his privates she discovered, she looked at him for approval, before tenderly marking the trail with kisses. Now, he had become more vocal, whispering her name and reaching for her hands. She fell back onto her knees, tucking some hair behind her ears before crawling closer, "what's wrong?"

A whisper, a mere whisper, but it had driven him insane. He stared half dazed at her lips, that gorgeous pout, God the things she could do with that mouth. "Will…" how to phrase it? What was wrong with him? He wanted her, they had done this before, and…he released her hand. When he did, she kissed him softly atop his mouth as if to placate _him_.

Lower still, and Caleb swallowed at the sensation of warmth that engulfed him. His skin was flushed and tight; every limb was made taunt and alert. He was so aware of her ministrations, so much so that he could feel every last brush of her soft body; it left him, still, breathless.

"Will."

All thought left him when her hands touched his already aroused shaft. Her caresses lingered far more towards exploration rather than seduction, but it didn't matter, he was too far-gone to know the difference. "Caleb," Her sweet, sultry voice again, rising to linger in between them, "does this feel like when you…"

She didn't get to finish, because at that moment he could no longer keep a chain on his desire. "Will," He pulled her closer and tugged at her lips, "I can't…I can't wait." His entire body seemed to have been tied into large knots of desire, her small, graceful fingers their master. She nodded confidently, although unsure of what to do next. So he guided her along, pressing and pushing, whispering and then pleading with her, until she had welcomed him into her warmth. Only then did she become oblivious to his words, unaware truly of anything other than the sweet tension that taunted her at the place where they joined.

They moved together, blissful in the ignorance of where one ended and the other began…she opened up to swallow him whole, and he unfurled inside of her, watching, with glazed eyes as she trembled atop of him, crying out in a voice made hoarse by whispered wants—

And he followed her. Succumbing to the pressure, to the exquisite pleasure. To anything that she offered, knowing in his heart, that she was giving him everything.

* * *

"Will," She was in immediate danger of falling asleep on top of him, but somehow she was too blasted content to care. She was aware of him shifting her, easing her off of his body and onto her side. Managing to force a very heavy eyelid open in order to watch him, she grinned when he smiled at her. "Tired?" He whispered. 

And she nodded, or at least, she imagined that she did, he tucked her closer to his side, and silently surveyed her face as she welcomed the advances of sleep. "Will." He had made up his mind. "Yes," She mumbled, her words obscured by his skin. "What do you think about coming to England with me?"

"I'd go anywhere with you." His chest rattled with pride when her voice touched his ears. "I'm taking you home."

_Home. _She really loved the sound of that. "When will we leave?"

"As soon as…"

All sense of drowsiness gone, she raised her head. "Can we leave tomorrow?"

He nearly laughed at the suggestion, but the strange serious look in her eyes hushed the sound in his throat. "I…I don't think that tomorrow…what's the rush? Are you in such hurry to get married?" He raked some of her more unruly hair from her forehead, "because I'd hate to disappoint you, but I don't really think that it'll get any better than this."

"I…I have something to tell you something." She eased herself into a sitting position, her voice faded with the distance, and he followed her upwards, flinching several times when his side protested the movement. "It's important."

"What is it?"

"My grandmother…she doesn't…I mean…" A long deep breath then, "She's arranged for me to be married to someone else. She wants to take me to France to meet him."

He didn't say anything else to interrupt her, and so, interpreting his silence as a signal for her to continue. "She wants me to leave by the end of the week." And she explained in a rushed, low sort of voice each detail as she could recall it. "If…If we could leave tomorrow," She finished, "before she had a chance…"

"How long have you known this?"

"Not very long." Will pressed her arms over her stomach, holding the sheet in place. "She meant to do it since she came here, but she only told me on Saturday. She made me promise that I'd go with her."

His silence was frightening, and slowly, she felt the breezy contentment that had been between them vanish. "Are you upset with me?"

"You should have told me this before…We did all of this…"

"It doesn't change anything."

When he spoke again his voice was odd, she didn't like it. "What if you're…with child?"

"A baby?" She hadn't considered children. Even worse, she couldn't understand why he was being like this—no, she definitely didn't like it one bit. "You told me that I could tell you anything…and this is important."

"You're engaged to someone else."

"It isn't finalised." She turned her face to look at him, only to discover that his eyes were fixed on the wall. "You're…You're scaring me Caleb."

"Shouldn't it scare you? Will, even if I take you away with me your grandmother will follow us. She'll take you back."

"If we're married then she…"

"Do you think that that will stop her?"

She spoke slowly; carefully threading the words that Irma had used to reassure her with around her emotions. "If the marriage is consummated…if I'm not a…virgin…He won't want me. And if I am…with child then…"

He changed suddenly. "Is that it?"

"Is what it?"

"Is that why you wanted to…" Images of her blushing face when she'd whispered her quiet surrender to him rose from his chest to torture him. "…is that why you said that you loved me?"

"I said it because I do."

He chose that exact moment to meet her gaze—a mistake for holding onto any sort of anger that he had created, for in those eyes he saw the dark haze of disappointment, a mixture of sadness and fury that lay stagnant in those orbs. "I know you do." He pulled her closer to him, kissing her temple and gladly relishing in the fact that she hadn't pushed him away. "I'm…sorry Will."

"She won't come for me…she won't be able to find us. Jamestown is massive…I've heard…and…"

"We'll think of something." He promised, although his mind reeled from the mere hints of the improbabilities.

"I'm scared of losing you." She admitted, and he knew then, even though he'd never admit it, that he was a great deal more frightened than she. "The good things are always difficult." He whispered, and she nodded. "Besides, I won't give you up so easily."

"You aren't mad then?"

"You should have told me before."

"I know." And then edging closer she whispered jokingly, "You could have told me the truth about you and Cornelia. So I guess now, we're even."

"Touché." Taking advantage of her closeness he tipped her chin upwards and touched his lips to hers, hoping to allow some of her seemingly endless optimism to seep into his body. She seemed intent on wrapping her arms around him and dragging him closer, but he, once again hesitated. "It seems like a terrible thing to bring up now, but where is your grandmother?"

"I'm not sure. Irma was dealing with it." She didn't want to stop kissing him; she tugged him back down to her level. "And that doesn't worry you in the least?"

"Irma wants…" She kissed him again, "…us to marry far more than I do. I'm not worried." He shifted so that she found a way to crawl atop of him, now, with her hand wrapped in his hair, and the sheet separating them falling away to her side—she felt ridiculously empowered. "I thought you were shy." He mumbled when she drifted downwards, to his collar.

"You want to stop?" She had yet to learn of the effect she had on him—when he wasn't in constant discomfort, he intended on showing her. _There_, so her optimism was indeed rubbing off. "I'll let you know angel." She smiled at him for a moment before lowering her head and kissing him full on the mouth.

* * *

**Author:** This chapter really didn't have anything to do with anything, just some smuff (smex + fluff) to aid you in this time of WillxCaleb withdrawal. This chapter was supposed to have the Cornelia rescue scene, but it's taking me a VERY long time to write and so instead of having you wait God knows how long for an update, I decided to shove in this scene. It isn't much but hey…

Sorry that it's taking so long, but some things have come up this summer and with college around the corner, it's a lot harder than I thought it'd be to update.

Yeah, so…I read somewhere that redheads like to have sex more than other hair colours. Random fact I thought I'd use. Also, yes I know that there is no plausible way that Caleb could have so much action considering his injury, but hell—season two sucked, I deserve a little something something.

Review loves!


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